


Numb

by Fics4you



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Autopsies, Blood, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Humor, Lumberjack Ryan Haywood, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Paranormal, Slow Burn, Snow, Spooky, Witchy!reader - Freeform, detective Jeremy Dooley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 74,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fics4you/pseuds/Fics4you
Summary: A mystery in the small town of Motbury and an ever growing missing persons list. Grooves carve at the windows and door frames, like the talons of someone desperate to get inside. Animals, they say, nothing to be afraid of. Welcome home.Yet no one told you what lies beneath the snow banks, and you weren’t prepared for the bodies. Each child found just beyond the treeline seeing another name scratched from the pile. Another bag in the morgue. Another stack of paperwork. And with every snow storm that rolls through, the town holds its breath, and the police prepare for the search. The station set to become another resting place, a home for what people don’t want to find but know it’s foolish to hope against.Because when the knocking comes a kid goes missing. Buried in your backyard with suspicion tied to their tombstones and a ghost story left on the doorstep. In the dark, when the wind howls and snow steals what’s left of what you thought you knew, there’s nothing left to do but dig.





	1. Chapter 1

Relief comes in the form of a fresh pair of socks. After clomping into the lodge for what feels like the millionth time that day you kick off your boots; the old offending pair lying discarded after being immediately shed in favour of something far thicker and obnoxious with pompoms. Soggy and sad, you can see those left abandoned creating pools by the door over the top of the one mug you’d insisted on keeping unpacked for occasions such as these. You haven’t touched the sandwich, stale bread adorning the sodden cardboard the gas station had graciously wrapped it in, tomato looking suspiciously like sludge and avocado even more like something you’d find between bathroom tiles. It doesn’t bother you though, and it’s nothing a monumentally sweet cup of herbal tea can’t fix for the time being. You just needed to make it to dinner.

It’s through the steam that you smile; hope as warm as the fire roaring in the hearth, mood impervious to the dampness of falling snow. It encases the edges of the splintered window frames, closing in as it lines the sills and topples every now and again from the roof with a shudder. And though empty walls wait with bated breath, ready to bare the pride of their new owners, you can’t bring yourself to start unpacking. Empty cupboards beg to be filled, closets eager to be lined and bathrooms desperate to be stocked - all screaming for some form of progress despite knowing you intend on offering none. Not yet, anyway.

Crates are jammed in every free corner, staircase blocked with a barrage of suitcases while furniture is left littered with packages and the promise of a nap. Even the room you’ve claimed as your own, the largest in all respects and the one you rightfully deserve after picking up the keys and moving across the country early and alone; has only the bed made. And, if someone were to clamber over the mountain of belongings at the foot of the stairs and traipse through the hallway lined with linen, they’d see a wardrobe harbouring piles of clothes and a carpet fashioned into a maze of mismatched books and boxes.

But you’re too involved in the moment to worry about everything you need to do, enraptured in the peace of a promising beginning. A fresh start is just what you need. A new place in a new town where no one knows your name. Where memories can be buried in the snowfall, and a future career can be forged in tree trunks. Here, you’re Y/N, no more and no less. Y/N, a woman who really needs to get on with the rest of the evening.

A gentle sigh escapes into your mug, a soft hum that’s swallowed with the remains of your tea. Aching feet pad against the rich wooden panels lining the floor, slowly easing you into an evening free from the bustle of a choking city. Void of the demands of people, or the hollowness of a house you’d come to refuse as home. Another comfortable breath comes as a jumper is pulled over your head, fabric softly tugging against your skin like caressing fingers. Even your laces cause little trouble, boots done up in no time before you’re out the door, nose buried in the cream fluff of a scarf.

The crunch of fresh snow starts off your journey into the town centre of Motbury; leading you down the damp wooden steps and onto the small stone path tracing through your new garden, property lined with thick pine trunks and shivering greenery. Late afternoon sun rays drift lazily through the branches, dusting the world with a pleasant yellow glow you can’t help smiling into. A quick glance backwards says goodbye to the lodge and its characteristic grooves, to its tattered log exterior and triangular peaks, sharp supports and clusters of windows. To the stone columns you swear you’ll coat in fairy lights and markings, the wagon wheels you’re certain you’ll never get around to moving, and the mound of firewood stacked haphazardly against the side of your new home.

 

—

 

The first store you enter welcomes you with open arms and a comfortable heat, gentle jingles of the bell above the door seeing the man behind the cash register’s head lifting. He smiles through a dark beard flecked with greys, hair a mess with the numerous passes his tattooed fingers make across it. Still, the expression sees a face creased with age brighten, bearing the same cutting lines that accompany his front door. He greets you with a casual hello before returning his attention to the two figures in faded uniform on the opposite side of the checkout, nodding along to their stories.

From the back you can’t make out much besides their thick, fur trimmed coats and working boots - but the guns holstered to their sides tells you enough. The shorter of the two, of who is at least a head below the man on the right, runs a hand through brightly coloured hair, diffusing icy blues and mousey brown roots. The tension marrying between his broad shoulders explains the concern twitching restlessly in his fingers, nerves conducting the gentle incessant taps of his toes. Such apprehension is mirrored in the flash you catch of the other man’s expression; muted red curls trimmed neat, freckles splotching pale skin.

The pair hears your entrance, turning too late as you disappear into the aisles with a small cart, eyes intent on the slip of paper decorating your palm. Murmurs still snake across the floor, your back growing warm as their voices brush against it. Snippets of conversation follow; questions about family and comments about the upcoming forecast. A conversation that refuses to linger on the missing posters plastered to the windows, and a warning about getting the store secured before the raging weather hits. Boisterous laughter finally defrosts the room that’s slowly been icing over with their worries, and it joins the selection of bread you sift through, loaves and rolls scattered with seeds accompanying the vegetables you’ve collected on the journey through the store.

None of the other bodies in the cosy space seem to mind the presence of the police, all wearing gentle expressions and comfortable shoulders. It puts you at ease, the usual nagging concern that bounces in your chest at the sight of law enforcement ebbing away. From the corner of your eye the quirk of a tall man’s lips sees the pressure stringing down your neck thaw, close enough for you to hear him chuckling at the conversation overtaking the front of the store, his amusement tumbling into the butcher’s display. His head shakes within the palm his chin rests against, smile turning into a grin. Then a large, callous hand pushes back loose strands of sweeping sandy blonde, impatiently forcing red plaid sleeves back up to the crook of his elbows.

And then you see it, something that makes your heart leap and pulse race, breath catching with a stifled gasp - there’s a special on steak. You beeline for it, now close enough to feeling the man’s warm laughter caress your side. Gathering a few packages and dumping them into your cart, you return to the sausages, of which the blonde seems to be struggling with. He holds two varieties in his hands, glancing from one to the other, utterly perplexed. You can see the difficulty, considering the options before making a decision.

“Pork and sage are always a good choice,” you offer helpfully, reaching in front and collecting an identical pack to the one he’s debating.

“You couldn’t be more right,” he replies after a moment, turning his incredibly blue eyes to you. The twitch of his lips widens into a smile, discarding the losing flavour and placing the winner in his basket. “You’ve just made dinner a hell of a lot easier.”  

“Just doing my duty.”

“Your country thanks you,” he chuckles, and your stomach leaps.

Intending to respond with a witty remark you’re almost certain won’t be nearly as clever as you hope, the words die in your throat with the crash fracturing the air; as sudden as the tumble of cusses emanating from the front of the store. You both whip your attention to the shattering of glass and the fuming voice of the shopkeeper, frustration buried in another person’s giggles. “Oh c’mon, Jeremy! That’s the 2nd jar this week!”

“Shit,” responds the man you assume to be Jeremy with a groan, “I’m so sorry Geoff.”

“I should have you bloody arrested for this.”

“I could do it, Geoff,” interjects the taller man eagerly, giggles eventually subsiding. “Just say the words. Please. Ask me to arrest him. God damn it Geoff. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Please have me arrest Jeremy.” 

You can’t hold back the sniggers, joy dripping through the fingers you hide your lips behind. The stranger beside you joins in, shaking his grinning face yet again. Far taller than you, he stands on his tiptoes, peering over the shorter shelves. “There go the complimentary chocolates.” He rocks back on the balls of his feet, wincing. “Damn it. Geoff always has the one with little hazelnuts inside.”

“What a waste,” you gasp, hand clutching your scarf in an action he mirrors. “Does this happen often?”

He glances at you, surprised. It takes him a moment to realise that he doesn’t actually recognise you, having accepted your conversation and comfortability as a form of familiarity. “All the time. That pair make a mess everywhere they go. I’m sorry, I’m being rude. You’re new here?”

“Just moved in,” you reply, brushing away his disappointment in his manners, “I bought the lodge up the road.” You shake the hand he offers, dwarfed in his firm grasp. “I’m Y/N. Figured I’d collect some supplies before my roommates arrive.”

“Ryan.” He smiles, a lopsided, carefree expression that leaves him looking younger. “I’d tell you that you’d get used to them, but you really don’t. 2 years and the short one’s still a pain in my ass.” He laughs, warm and rich. “I don’t let him in the shop anymore, he’s always breaking stuff. But I won’t take up any more of your time.” He gives your trolley a pointed glance, assessing it’s contents and then your stature. “It looks like you’ve got a lot of hungry mouths to feed.”

You offer him a shrug, rather enjoying his company. “Not for a few more days. I moved in early to sort out some paperwork, pick up the keys and make sure everything’s set up. I’ll probably end up shopping again in a few more days. They’re animals.”

“The lodge, you said?” He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful and tracing the paths he knows so well in his head. “The one on the outskirts, went extremely cheap?”

“Suspiciously cheap,” you correct.

“By the tree line?”

“That’s the one.”

He dives into his pocket while you’re speaking, sawdust trembling from the patches plastered against his pants. Rummaging around, he discards a number of crumbled receipts into his basket before pulling out a business card. “Here,” he insists, pressing the laminated piece into your expectant palm. “I run the local carpentry store; ‘Hay Woodworks’. A place like yours is gonna require some fixing up. We try to keep on top of the scratches around the doors and window frames - nah, don’t look so scared, it’s just animals trying to find shelter in the storms - but it’s always best to be safe. One good gust and the whole thing can cave, even with the newer buildings. I’d be happy to help out, even if it’s just to check the property out before the storms hit. I’ll sort you out with anything.”

Your eyebrow quirks, testing the waters with a timid snatch at opportunity. “What about a job?”

He considers this thoroughly, picking up one of your hands and studying it, folding it over in his own. Finally, he lets it drop, lips pursing to the side. “What’ve you worked with?”

“Mainly statement pieces and decorations,” you reply fondly, thumb tracing one of the many callouses that’d stained your hands years ago, skin tattered with scars. “But I’m good on a ladder. I used to work in my Granddad’s shop when I was younger and we’d go out and fix up houses. I haven’t carved in a while, but I’m all about new beginnings right now.”

He’s lips tug into a broad grin, welcoming and infectious. “I think I could find something for you to do. It’d be hard work, but swing by the shop tomorrow and we’ll see what you can do. I’ve got a couple of fix up jobs lined up for the coming few weeks, I could do with a hand once I know what you’re capable of.”

You’re beaming as you thank him, potential rushing through your mind with the excited shake of your hands. Eventually you pry yourself away with his insistence of having taken up too much of your time. Venturing further into the groceries, you throwing a few well-timed glances back at him, Ryan staring intently at his shoes before shaking himself, tearing away from your line of sight at the call of his name. During your interaction the commotion taking over the front of the store has died down, cheerful warmth still radiating in spite of the cold rattling against the exterior walls.

“Hold on, Michael,” comes a voice over the shelves a few minutes later as you’re leaning into the milk fridge, overwhelmed with the hum of freezer elements, unable to discern it’s familiarity, “I just want to check something first.”

“Go for it, J,” encourages Michael, hearing the bell jingle as he pushes open the door and says his goodbyes to Ryan, gusts of freezing wind playing with his curls. “I’ll be in the patrol car with my ass pressed to the heater.”

You pay the conversation no mind, finally having picked up enough produce to keep a small family fed for a week - or your roommates satiated for at least 3 days. Making your way to the checkout, the voice comes again, curious and careful. “Y/N?”

Spinning, you find yourself facing the small, bright officer, deep brown eyes widening in disbelieving joy. He’s stronger with your name this time, excited. “Y/N! Since when do you shop up in the mountains?”

“Jeremy,” you breath, shock coursing through your veins, “oh my god, is that really you?”

“Jesus,” he chuckles incredulously, both embracing for a long moment before he holds you out at arm’s length. He can’t quite comprehend your existence, drinking in the sight of his long lost friend. “It’s been, what, 2 years? How’ve you been?”

“Alright,” you admit rather hollowly, blinking a few times to stay on track. “What’re you doing here?”

“I work here now.” There’s pride in his voice, chest puffing up and finger jabbing the patch adoring his breast pocket, a similar one on his arm. “I was transferred here after we stopped working together, you’re looking at Motbury’s detective chief inspector.”

“You’re kidding.” You laugh, elated and vaguely aware of Ryan paying for his groceries, returning the wave he throws you from the door. Another billow of wind, ice nipping the tip of your nose. “You finally got your promotion.”

“You bet your ass I did, and a haircut.” His fingers skim the colour that’d made him so unrecognisable, and your heart feels instantly lighter.

“It looks great.”


	2. Chapter 2

You and Jeremy stare at one another, trying to find familiar footing after disappearing from each other’s lives for 2 years. His smile is the same, beard the familiar close and clean trim as it had always been, and the glint in his eyes still sparkles with the upturn of his lips. And yet he’s somehow broader than you remember, which is saying something, considering his usual build that sees his shoulders going on for miles. The coat only adds, thick and bulky, fur trim sweeping his jawline. But he doesn’t look at you any differently, no accusations or prying questions, none of the hatred you expect and deserve. Standing before you isn’t a man you’ve wronged, but a childhood friend eager for your next adventure. But guilt taints the warm joy you’ve been wearing all day, lower lip pulled between nervous teeth.

Sensing your discomfort, he waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t even think about it.”

“About what?”

“Apologising.” He smiles, expression brimming with forgiveness and a sense of understanding you’ve never been able to fully comprehend. He bustles to your side, brushing your hands from the cart and taking over, pushing it towards Geoff - who isn’t thrilled to see him again. You follow close behind. Drunk on nostalgia. Broken on history.

He throws a curious glance back at you, his joy overwhelming and cheeks a rosy pink. “So what’re you doing in Motbury? The mountains are pretty far from the city.”

You shrug, making a face and a vague hand gesture. “Figured it was time for a change of scenery. Besides, I’ve always liked the mountains.”

“Wait a minute. You’ve been stationed up here, haven’t you?” He’s eager. Eyes wide and he’s practically bouncing. Geoff wills him to stop from behind the counter, fearful of the items spanning the station. Tattooed fingers protect the goods like cages, gaze critical of the small officer. “You have! God, please tell me this means we get to work together again? I could even get you a desk by mine, if you’d like. Because, get this Y/N, there’s this case that’s-”

A cautionary and firm hand stops his excitement, as well as his potential to destroy anything else. Geoff throws you a thankful look, and you return it with a smile. But Jeremy continues to tremble, ready to explode, bubble bursting as soon as you speak. “I’m not with the force anymore.”

His mouth falls open with an audible pop, appalled and yet still somehow managing to stack your groceries on the counter. Geoff has to catch a few to stop them rolling, but does his best to avoid another casualty. “What?!”

“I quit not long after you left.”

“Quit? Y/N,” his tone turns serious, accompanied with the gentle beep of scanned items. You budge Jeremy out of the way, beginning to load up your purchases with more haste and consistency while he continues to gawp. “You’re the best detective I know. Best in the country. How could you give it all up?”

“Was,” you correct with a smile only visible to the milk cartons you unload, “but I appreciate it.”

“You’ve wanted to be a detective ever since you were a kid.”

You hold back the urge to take him by the shoulders and shake, instead chewing the inside of your cheek until blood cleanses the bitterness from your tongue. “I changed my mind.”

He can’t fathom it. Wrestling with empty hands, he tries to force the air into something he can understand. “But what’ve you been doing for 2 years?”

Shrugging, your mood cools with the dipping of the sun, clouds scattered with purples and deep blues. The store hums with the glow of yellowed bulbs, reflecting against the glass windows plastered with advertisements and missing persons posters. “I taught an arts and crafts class for the local primary schools every Tuesday.”

He hesitates in the face of something so uncharacteristically vulnerable, your words heavy in his restless palms. “Y/N, what happened?”

“You know what happened.”

He doesn’t speak immediately, face falling at your sharpness. Still, he finds his voice eventually. “We all have one case that-”

“I’ve moved on,” you interject rather forcefully, shooting him what you hope doesn’t come across as a glare. He drops into silence, shuffling his feet. “I do other things now, J. Creative things that don’t involve me diving too deep into a murder mystery.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t indulge, just a little? It could be inspirational if you really think about it. You’d love this case, Y/N. It’s got your kinda creepy written all over it. You could always-”

“Jeremy, I can’t. Not again.” You consider asking him to pick his pouting bottom lip up off the floor as you swipe your card, feeling his disappointment pool by you feet. Not for your reluctance, but rather for his vain hope of working together again. For his unanswered prayers, because you’re still not okay. You’d be lying if you didn’t wish for one more day like the old ones, and naive if you think it could be as easy as it once was. “But I really appreciate the offer. We can be friends, rather than colleagues. I’ve got some time to make up.”

He nods sullenly, shuffling his feet and glancing outside to scowl at the sound of a car horn blaring. He motions half heartedly to Michael, who’s gesturing rather forcefully to his watch. “Well, what if I introduce you to the townsfolk sometime? I know everyone in Motbury, and all the best spots.”

“I’d like that,” you admit over the exclamation of another impatient honk, pushing Jeremy’s shoulder and urging him to leave. “You’ve still got my number? It hasn’t changed.” He nods shortly, squaring his shoulders and preparing for a goodbye that won’t last nearly as long as the last one. “Good. Get going Inspector, your partner looks pissed.”

“He’s always pissed,” beams Jeremy, taking large bounds towards the door and yelling profanities out of it. He’s about to leave when he stops, taking in a deep breath and turning back to you. “Y/N?”

“Hmm?”

The sincerity in his eyes hurts, face softened with unimaginable relief. “I’m really happy to see you.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and racing after the patrol car that tries to drive away without him, cackling laughter erupting from the vehicle he eventually manages to clamber into. You watch him go, rooted in place. It is good to see him; to find him at a point in life where he’s got it together and doing far better than you. If he can find a home in this town, pick up the pieces of the life you’d both smashed down, hell, so can you.

“Every time he comes in here something always breaks,” sighs Geoff, resting on his elbows and watching the two officers disappear into the snow. “But he’s a good kid.” Another pass of his hand over his hair, face worn and eyes returning to you. “Probably the best thing that’s ever happened to this town.”

“He’s always been a good detective.”

“By the sounds of it,” Geoff muses, offering you a biscuit from beneath the register, “so were you. I’m not gonna intrude, but I trust that man’s judgement. Whatever happened, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Clearly intending his words to be more of a comfort than an inconvenience, Geoff visibly struggles with your silence. Then his expression brightens. “You said you like working with kids?”

He’s observant, you’ll give him that. Arguably those Tuesday nights covered in glitter glue and paint had kept you going, the children’s joy making your own life a little lighter. A little easier. He must know that, lips quirking as though he’s seen it all before. “I do,” you reply, almost a little too eagerly.

He nods. “It’s a bit sudden I guess, but you seem alright. On Thursday afternoons the local community garden holds arts and crafts for the kids. I help out with my friend, Jack, who runs the project. Sometimes the scrawny fuck that works here joins in, but that’s always up in the air. We’ve been trying to get Mr. policeman to visit - kids love the damn car - but he was too busy today. That’s why he came in and broke everything I own.”

“Are you looking for volunteers?”

He smiles, a big toothy grin that wipes away all instances of age. “Why would I look for any more volunteers when just I’ve found you?”

 

—

 

It’s got to be the 5th time you’ve typed out the text to your best friend, different variations all sounding forced. Still, looking at it, it’s the best you’ve got. And nestled in a small alcove, shielded from the snow and warm glow of streetlights, you press send.

 **Y/N:** Moving went well and shopping all done. About to take it home.

You don’t bother putting your phone away, knowing the reply will arrive before you slide the device into your pocket. Instead you pull out a pen, working small curves and sharp lines across a the portion of skin lining the top of your hand just beneath your thumb. With the black ink of a sigil leaking sticky you start to calm, stress leaching away with every repetition of ‘Everything is going to be okay’ that passes through your head. Your eyes drift closes, each breath bringing in the cold, stinging night until you’re drowsy. The reply doesn’t surprise you, but it drags your eyes open.

 **Lauren:** Congrats!! How’s the new place?

 **Y/N:** Bigger than I thought it would be. Lots of room. It’s gonna be a busy few days. Can’t find most of my herbs or spell books.

 **Lauren:** Once the guys get there you’ll be able to take a break.

 **Lauren:** Trevor says your herbs are in the box labeled kitchen junk. Same with your smudge sticks. Dunno about the spell books though. Have you tried things labelled storage?

 **Y/N:** Doubt it haha. And thanks, I’ll look when I get home. How’s the prep work for them going?

 **Lauren:** Dunno about Alfredo, but Trevor’s suitcase is done.

 **Lauren:** I had to pack it.

 **Lauren:** you should’ve seen it, Y/N. He’s a disgrace.

 **Y/N:** He’s lucky to have you.

 **Lauren:** You bet your ass he is.

 **Lauren:** Stop stalling and go home. Soon as you’re done with the groceries you can pass out.

 **Y/N:** God that sounds nice. It’s been a day.

 **Lauren:** Did something else happen?

 **Lauren:** Y/N?

 **Lauren:** You okay?

 **Y/N:** Yeah. Ran into Jeremy.

 **Lauren:** JEREMY? As in, Jeremy from ex work Jeremy?

 **Y/N:** Yup.

 **Lauren:** Are you ok though?

 **Y/N:** Yeah, I’m okay. He seems happy here, which is nice.

 **Lauren:** I’m glad. That whole situation was fucked up

 **Y/N:** You’re telling me

 **Lauren:** You okay?

 **Lauren:** Bad memories?

 **Y/N:** More hopeful than anything. If he can get past that case, so can I.

 **Lauren:** It wasn’t as hard for him though. He didn’t feel it.

 **Lauren:** You wanna talk about her?

 **Y/N:** Not at all. I’ve gotta get these groceries home. I’ve been sat in this snowbank for the past 20 minutes working on a sigil. I want to get some charms set up tonight as well.

 **Lauren:** Good luck dude.

 **Lauren:** Keep me updated on moving.

 **Lauren:** And any hot guys.

 **Lauren:** Mostly the hot guys though.

 **Lauren:** But your mental state too, I guess.

 

—

 

The trip back takes far longer. Weighed down with bags and the surprises of the day. You trudge through the snow now that the sun’s settled. Darkness greets you on the doorstep, orange lights singing from the lanterns that cling to the dark wooden beams. Numb hands wrestle the key into the lock, a vicious chill tearing your scarf away. Shouldering in, you heave the groceries to the floor, letting tins scatter and produce roll. Exhausted, begging to fall to your knees and let the draining day finally take you, you turn back to the garden.

No longer does the sun share it’s light, moon dusting generous servings of silver across the landscape. A right foot forward and you’re descending the steps, body dunked in the night’s cold embrace. No birds sing, and the gentle creaking of trees is all that fills the silence. If you focus, you swear you can hear the snow fall. Another step and you’re sitting on damp, freezing wood, staring at the property line. Nothingness stares back. Barren and empty. Lonely, with no one to wave to the branches swaying for attention. Not even an animal to dance between the trunks, no confident tails or pricked ears. Only a world letting out tired breaths, seconds buried in the white grace falling lazily from the sky.

And you smile, stand, and retrieve your scarf before closing the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying the story? Join the Numb Discord: https://discordapp.com/invite/9xjWZvT


	3. Chapter 3

You don’t remember making dinner, only knowing you did based on the potatoes and sliced meat bundled together in the fridge. And the mess you’d left all across the countertop. It’s the same with falling asleep - stinging and dry mouth the only remnants of a dead night. That, and the pain twinging up and down your neck, leaving you wincing. What you do remember is eying up the large grooves tracing the side of the lodge, grating against your door. _Just animals_ , Ryan had said. _No need to worry_.  

You’re not sure you believe him, but you’re too tired to care.

With a groan you stretch out of the armchair you’d somehow curled into for hours, thick blanket slipping to the floor with a muted thud. Everything refuses to cooperate. Stiff and sore as you force your limbs to work. It takes a while but you manage to stand, unsteady on bruised feet before a stumbled steps sees you lurching for the mantle. Clumsy fingers stop your fall, forehead resting against the wall. Beneath you embers smoulder in the hearth, wood charred and cracked like burning scales buried in the fireplace.

It's still dark. Window humming with cold and garden doused in the incredibly deep blues of night. Thick like a choking film, impenetrable with such sore eyes. You consider your room, thinking of the bed you'd made yesterday in the hopes of curling up in it, and the path you'd mentally prepared yourself to forge. It would be so easy to bunker down for days, eyes trained to the treeline and chin burrowed in blankets. But you can't sleep anymore, not with the eerie shapes lurking in the corners. And certainly not with the beams of light emanating from the blub you've hastily flicked on. Besides, you'd promised yourself that it'd be different here, that you wouldn't let the world pass by from the confines of your duvet. Wouldn't let self loathing leave you bedridden. You were going to take life and run with it, willing or not; which means recognising the fact that if you can't sleep, you might as well work. Still, your body has other ideas, rebelling against your efforts.

4:47am, insists your phone. Far too early to start anything, but too late to work in more sleep. At least, not with a day as packed as you've forced it to be. There's nothing else to do besides coax yourself into moving, one foot falling in front of the other and a forearm diving into the closest box. It shouldn’t be hard to do some unpacking before leaving for Hay Woodworks, you tell yourself sternly, and if you start before the sun rises you should be able to get at least one room finished before lunch. But that process can wait for another hour, argues the monumental growl of your stomach and the dry aching of your abdomen. First comes food.

Breakfast passes in a daze. Scrambled eggs and toast you're lucky you didn't burn, nothing but plastic cutlery and paper plates until you're able to find the crockery. You almost forget about the tea sat on the side, caught up in the memories you've long since chosen to forget and the packing paper scattered across every surface you can find. Almost. Cup pressed to your lips, tepid warmth wasting no time before radiating in your chest. Gentle at first, creeping through your limbs until you can feel your fingers for the first time today.

Its with the rising of the sun hours later, and splashes of washed pinks and blues, that you feel more like yourself. Hopeful again, and as determined as ever. Snow can’t dampen your mood, and not simply because there is none. The sky remains a clear crystal blue, so bright that what remains on the ground in patches shines. Even the greens of the trees look happier, deep forest hues coming alive. The promise of a new day seeps across the floorboards with the morning's fresh light, touching your toes and working across your back while you busy with unpacking. Tedious exercises of interior design, a guessing game of what goes where and who’s is what.

Another hour and the kitchen is completed far sooner than expected, no longer home to only the necessities of a kettle and cup. The cupboards are lined and pantry packed, fridge brimming healthily in the now cosy space. Pride thumps with the beat of the speakers you’d found midway through the process, music now marrying with the warmth of the roaring fire, flooding the corners and burrowing into the rugs. You'd celebrate the accomplishment with another cup of tea if you could, but the muffled tone of your phone, buried beneath empty boxes, stops the idea short. Disheartened, but only for a moment, the once forgotten flash of Jeremy's name across the screen reignites the possibility of taking a much deserved break.

And with his name the world feels alien, like the years haven’t passed and the tears that’d littered your bed sheets over countless nights were never shed. The warmth of the room twists into one of the many summer’s days you thought you’d never experience again, bringing with it an uncomfortable tightness in the skin spanning your shoulders. There had been numerous times when you’d considered deleting his number, erasing his existence and all the memories that come along with it.

But, god, you’re glad you didn’t.

 **Jeremy:** I clock in @ 10. Coffee at the place opposite Geoff's Mercantile?

 **Y/N:** I'll be there in 30.

You take the steps two at the time, all suitcases long since allocated to rooms and the banister overlooking the kitchen and living space finally free of everything you’d tossed over it. Barging into your room, you swim through the clutter, wrestling over books and battling to the bathroom. Looking around, you’re glad you’d thought ahead and kept it relatively clean. Swiping your toothbrush and working through the motions, you’re halfway through your hair when the next text arrives.

 **Jeremy:** Still drink chai?

You can’t believe he has to ask.

 **Y/N:** Chai is the love of my life.

Too busy pulling on the thickest cable knit sweater you own, the reply goes muffled until you return with a hat in hand. On the screen flashes a photo that must’ve arrived just before you hit send on your last message, Jeremy smiling between two steaming drinks.

 **Jeremy:** You have 10 mins before I drink it and you buy your own.

 

-

 

The path into Motbury’s town centre is incredibly familiar at this point. Traversed so frequently in the past few days that you can recount every dip in the uneven stone, and know when to let your hand drift in the hopes of touching the spongy moss that waits to greet you. Eventually, and rather regretfully, you say goodbye to the isolation of your home and it’s expansive nothingness lined with trees, welcoming the warm smell of baked goods and hum of civilization. It creeps from the bottom of the hill, sandwiched between the banks and gently smoking with the puff of tens of chugging fireplaces. T he clusters of homes and stores are almost indistinguishable from one another, doused in lackluster snow and looking as though they belong in one of those expensive christmas decorative towns your Grandma used to collect.

Gripping the gnarled wooden fencing, you take the stairs will little regard for the ice lying in wait, dampness leeching the warmth from your fingertips. No longer does that damn near invisible grass bank trip up your exit, triumphant as you leap across it under the watchful eye of the children gathered in the square. You don’t even stumble. Bent knees catching your descent, body rocking into standing and smile plastered across your face. A spin sees you staring back up the hill you’ve mastered without incident, path curling up the grass fighting its way through the snow, oblivious to the fact that the night will most likely cover it again.

Locating the coffee shop is just as easy, retracing your steps past the fountain you doubt has ever been running, venturing a little further than the well trimmed floral displays struggling through the cold. You must have passed at least two bakeries and a handful of artisanal shops by the time you get there, eventually standing with you back to Geoff’s Mercantile and taking in the tiny store slipped between a teahouse and antiques boutique.

Through the windows you catch a glimpse of ice blue, your fingers tapping playfully on the glass and a childish smile splitting your cheeks. Jeremy jumps in the booth he’s claimed, whirling on you with accusations in his eyes. He huffs, deliberately reaching for the cup sat opposite and bringing it to his lips with a slurp you can hear from outside. Offended, you clutch your chest, glaring before pushing through the door with a musical jingle.

The scolding of the barista is the first thing you register, clambering over a cluttering of tables and mismatch of chairs. He’s glaring at Jeremy, forcing a thick mane of dark hair from his face. Hands so expressive you can practically see them shaking the detective inspector by the shoulders.  In the display cases cakes and pretty pastries span out, glowing rich and fetching the lining off your stomach. The monumental growl goes unnoticed, man glowering at Jeremy.

“You’re a terrible person.”

Jeremy looks insulted, continuing to sip from the cup he’d intended to be yours. “How dare you, Jon. I should arrest you right now.”

Jon looks unfazed, eyes sparkling. “For what?”

“For… err…” Jeremy has to think, taking a moment to compile a response. “For unruly behaviour.”

Spotting you, Jon shoots a glare at the man sitting falsely triumphant in the booth. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, hello!” He offers you an overwhelmingly bright beam, opening his arms like he’s welcoming you home. “Welcome to the _‘Coffeemonger’!_ I’m Jon, and that,” he points to Jeremy, who yelps in response, downing the rest of your drink, “is the asshole that owes you another drink.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jon continues to glare at Jeremy as he stands, sheepishly collecting the empty coffee mugs and bringing them to the counter. Trying to place them down as apologetically as he can, he gets redirected to the sink - where he groans and begins cleaning away his shame. Satisfied, Jon nods and returns his attention to you. “I’ll add another drink to his order for you.”

 You smile, acknowledging Jeremy’s pleads for forgiveness before glancing down at the cake display. “Can you add an extra hot chocolate, too? And 2 brownies?”

 Jon practically cheers his agreeance, exuberant over Jeremy’s even louder groans. But he doesn’t fight back, accepting defeat and drying his hands. Making his way over, he greets you with an enthusiastic hug, your nose buried in the trim of his coat. “Sorry I drank your chai.”

 “You should be,” you reply, grinning at Jon sneaking an extra brownie into the bag and on to the bill. “That’s theft.”

 “I can’t arrest myself,” shrugs Jeremy, “so you’re shit outta luck.”

 “I’m sure I can find someone at the station who’s willing to help me out,” you muse, watching Jon work expertly around the coffee machine. In between muffling the milk screaming into froth you’re handed the box of chocolate goodness, smell absolutely godly. Jeremy seems to thinks so, too, sneaking a twitching hand towards to sweets with a cheeky and prolonged _‘eehhhh’_. Having none of it, you bat his hand away. “Oh no you don’t, these aren’t for you.”

 “What?!” He’s insulted, brow furrowing as Jon thrusts the drinks tray loaded with steaming cups into his hands, offering your drinks far more gently. “You’re not going to eat 2 brownies-”

 “3,” cuts in Jon, sharing your cheerful smile while he leans his crossed arms on the counter, “3 brownies.”

 “3 brownies?!” Jeremy groans, a deep rattling noise that has you laughing. “Fine, but you’re definitely not going to manage 3.”

 “Don’t doubt me, J,” you reply, “but in this instance, I won’t be eating them all. I have somewhere to be.”

 “You have other friends besides me already?” He’s dubious, and you’re a little put out.

 “Of course I do,” you respond, poking him in the chest before picking up your drinks. “These are for Ryan and I.”

 “Ryan?” Pries Jon eagerly, clinging to the counter, “as in, Ryan of Hay Woodworks? Ryan the incredibly attractive and hard to please Ryan?” At your nod he grins, sliding across the bench and landing light on his feet. “Hear that, Jeremy? She’s moving up in the world.”

 Jeremy mumbles what sounds suspiciously like a _‘shut up asshole’_ while Jon opens the door, letting the two of you out into the cold. Returning his wave with the rise of your elbow, you follow your friend out onto the mainstreet, washed in his grumbling. Eventually he turns to you, slightly dimmer than usual. “So, you want a lift to Haywood’s or what?”

 You consider this thoroughly, glancing around for any signs of the patrol car. “You’re not gonna make me sit in the back, are you?”

 “All depends,” he teases, setting off towards the large group of children huddled around his vehicle, _oohing_ and _ahhing_. “What’s in it for me?”

 “The extra brownie?”

 “Done deal.”

  


-

 

The building stands tall, a forest green finish and beautiful ornate features crafted from deep, warm wood. Hanging from one of the looping beams is a sign inscribed as _‘Hay Woodworks’_ , swaying with gentle creaks in the soft, chilly wind. The stairs leading up to the bright red door are worn, bending in the centre and corners coated in moss. An odd, tired beauty hits you, from the masonry lining the bottom of the building to the frost catching in the windows. Nothing sits out of place, pristine if not a little old.

 Jeremy, however, doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are narrow, face displeased as movement stirs from inside the building. “This is your stop, Y/N.”

 "Thanks,” you smile, tossing a brownie onto his dash before struggling with the door, one foot kicking into the cold while you stand. “I really appreciate it.”

 “It’s okay,” he responds hollowly, eyes fixated on the store door as it begins to crack open. An absent thumb jabs towards the boot of the patrol car, and you start moving around to the back. “Don’t forget about your bag. It’s in there somewhere.”

 Ducking to avoid the quick pop of the boot, you dive through the numerous bags in search of your own, pulling it out as Ryan appears on the porch. He’s cheerful, face bright and eyes shining crystal blue against the crisp snow. You wave at him, unable to hold back the beam splitting your cheeks, and he does the same with a large hand. Working back to the passenger side, you peer through the window Jeremy has wound down, confused by his suppressed hostility. “J, you alright?”

 “Yeah.” He shakes himself, eyes widening and face shifting to innocence as he looks at you. “Yeah, I’m alright. You be careful, okay? Lots of sharp tools that’ll have your fingers off. Don’t touch anything that’ll kill you.”

 You nod, taking his suspicion as concern rather than acknowledging the paranoia bouncing through your gut, greeting Ryan while he descends the stairs - looking absolutely overjoyed to see you. He shares his friendly expression with Jeremy, who forced himself to hold back the scowl. “Hi Jeremy!”

 “Hi Haywood. How’s business?”

 “Really good, actually,” he responds happily, “I just got some new material in.”

 “Oh really?” Jeremy drums his fingers against the wheel, knuckles turning white. “Find anything interesting in the forest?”

 Ryan’s brow furrows. “Nothing besides a few animal skulls.”

 “I’m sure.”

 “Just the skulls,” Ryan insists from your side, close enough for you to feel the heat radiate against your arm. “Stripped completely clean, no other bones or anything. I wonder what could’ve happened.”

 “I’m sure you have no idea.” He’s curt as he pulls away, casting you one last glance before yelling out the window. “You better look after her!”

“But…” His voice in small, as though he were hoping Jeremy would help him bounce ideas about the missing extremities of the corpses he’d come across. “But _I don’t know_. That’s half the fun, damn it.”

Bewildered, you look to Ryan, who seems just as confused as you. The expression aches in your chest, and you offer him the brownie, relieved to see his eyes light up. “What was all that about?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” he admits, swallowing his hurt and biting into the treat with a muffled thanks. He turns to you, placing a light hand on your shoulder and motioning up the steps. “But it doesn’t matter, because we get to play with knives.”

“Knives?”

His eyebrows twitch upward, beam turning mischievous. “Knives.”

  


-

  


“Right,” he exclaims with a clap of his hands, rubbing them together eagerly. “What do you want to make for your trial run?”

The inside of the store is an arrangement of organised clutter. To make it through to where you stand now you'd wound with the path he'd cut, working past a space home only to large dressers and writing desks proudly displaying intricate carvings, and drifting beneath a room lined with clocks. Every new set of walls offers a different specialty, each as impressive as the last. You'd stared at it all with a focus on keeping your mouth from hanging open until the floor became sawdust and projects grew more and more unfinished. The back of the warehouse cluttered with rooms is arguably your favourite, large and irregular hunks of wood resting again walls while machinery waves with the promise of creation.

You look at him dumbfounded, buried in sawdust and the sudden realisation that you might be in over your head. But he beams instead of questioning what you hope doesn’t come across as reluctance. “Trick question: you don’t have to know what to make before you start making it. I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time.”

Ryan gestures to the equipment that certainly is a lot more than just knives, and you take the prompt to start moving, eventually coming to a stop in front of a squarish hunk of wood no bigger than a book. Tracing the grain with your fingers, skin catches in the small nooks, feeling the natural bubbles forming within the cavities. Picking it up the weight surprises you, sturdy and solid in your grasp. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like,” he calls, gathering up supplies and sitting down to work, “I’ve got plenty to keep you going. Just nothing you can take your fingers off with. I don’t have the legal forms for that.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you tease, leaving him with a coy smile and gentle blush. His eyebrows pull together as you turn, offended by the heat dusting his cheeks. “I may be good with a weapon, but a belt sander is a different story.”

Reaching out a playful hand, it doesn’t make it to the machine. Instead it’s caught in his, a chorus of _‘nononono!’_ following his scampering to your side and accompanying a grin. Glancing from your joined hands - fingers lost in his palm, thumb comforting as it anchors you in place - and up to his face with a cocked eyebrow, his grin turns bashful. The pink reinters his cheeks, more vibrant than ever. Finally releasing you he takes your shoulders, urging you a different direction. “Maybe we’ll avoid things that can kill you, just for the first week?”

Hyper aware of his touch, you want to melt, but somehow convince yourself that being a puddle wouldn’t be entirely beneficial. “You’re no fun,” you pout, casting him a look that sees your cheek brush his knuckles, his eyes widening as it does.

He catches himself quickly, giving you a tentative squeeze and defiant smirk. “I’m loads of fun.”

“We’ll see about that.” Getting back on track, you wander the space like it’s your own while he bustles about to hide his ever reddening expression, collecting a pencil and admiring the wall loaded with carving knives before selecting one. Behind you he seems to regain his composure, Ryan’s footing growing more confident. You give him a few more minutes, just to make sure, before you return to him and take the only empty seat available.

Watching him work is like magic, everything effortless and natural. And as he works on the tiny details spanning the length of wood across his knees, he seems content. Like nothing matters, and as though every pass of his tool sees him relax until he’s more comfortable. The curve of his shoulders is nothing compared to the quirk of his lips, gentle and oblivious of itself. That same lock of hair tumbles into his eyes, but he feels no need to knock it away.

You swallow the feeling to stand and do it yourself. And, shedding your hat and coat and hiding them in your bag, you begin to work. It takes a while for you speak, but not because you’re uncomfortable in the silence; but because you can’t stand having his voice so close while not being able to hear it. “So, how long have you been doing this?"

Ryan looks up, momentarily surprised to see you sat in front of him, noticing the hunk of wood taking shape in your hands. You know what you must look like, sprinkled in shavings and far too red to be excused for overheating. He doesn’t seem to mind, rather enjoying the sight of a blush similar to his. "I opened the business up maybe... 2 or 3 years ago?" he says, standing from his project and searching for something on the bench beside him. He finds it quickly, returning to see you studying your progress with the pencil resting between your lips. "I used to work for my Dad a while back, but I decided to branch out."

He wiggles his eyebrows until you grace him a grimace, and he smirks at the expression. Removing the pencil and silently cursing the habit, you lean back in the chair before responding. "The delivery was a little wooden," you critique, grinning over his equally appalled groans, "but I appreciate the effort you put into it."

"I'll log it under _'needs improvement.'_ "

You glare, eyes narrowing and elbows coming to rest on your knees. An accusatory finger jabs at his innocent features. "Leaf it to you to make such bad jokes."

He takes the challenge, eyebrow making your stomach pool with butterflies until he speaks and ruins the feeling. “Oh, and yours are oaky?"

"Mine are pine, at best."

He's laughing, deep hearty chuckles resonating against the walls and a hand brushing back the hair shaken free.

"Seems like we're in a sticky situation."

"That's it, I'm leaving." Dramatic sweeps gather up your things, but the silly smile on your face says that it’s the last thing you want to be doing.

"C’mon Y/N, don't be a stick in the mud."

You groan, knees bending with the weight of puns loaded on your back. "Ryan, no. Have mercy."

"Are you really gonna make like a tree?"

"Don't!" You ram your hand into your bag, desperately searching for your hat and jamming it on your head.

“And leaf me here?"

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” you laugh, bolting for the exit. But he’s quicker, your joyful screams and flailing limbs caught before you can reach the door into the next room. The ceiling greets your glee, his yell of _‘oh no you don’t!’_ You struggle, laughing as the efforts result in the air being squeezed from your lungs. A frantic gasp finally giggles from your lips, cheeks threatening to split from your smiling. “Ryan, put me down or so help me!”

The floor is sudden, hitting the soles of your feet with such surprise that if it weren’t for his hands - still firmly on your arms - you’d stumble. Still, it’s nothing in comparison to his closeness. So near that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and lost in the oceans of his eyes when you look up.

"All bark and no bite, huh?"

"Oh, I bite." You smile in reply, taking advantage of his flustered state and slipping regretfully away. "But only when the situation calls for it. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ry."

The blush rising in his cheeks is blatantly obvious as you slip from the room wearing a smile so bright, it’s blinding.


	5. Chapter 5

Your bag hits the floor with a loud thud, but it’s nothing in comparison to the beat your heart sings too. You’d hoped it would quieten once Ryan wasn’t around, but the sound that rushed through your chest had followed you home. Up the snow banks and stairs, and through the lodge until it stands in front of you. Granting it your attention, it sings for a few more minutes before eventually fading with the nervous smile you put out of your mind. Absent fingers dive into your pocket, pulling out two small, smooth and dark stones, passing them across one another in your hand. Flashes of the gold inscribed against their surface sees you calming, tight giddiness in the centre of your chest relaxing. It doesn’t dim the smile, but it’s enough to think straight. 

Then your phone is pressed to your ear, waiting for the distant rings while you continue to fold the stones. Your best friend’s voice greets you after the click, making your heart leap and the smile on your lips widen into a grin. 

“Hey Y/N, what’s up?” 

You try and sound as flippant as possible, suppressing the excited stretch of your lips. “Oh, hey Lauren, how’s life-”

She cuts you off, familiar with the tone and willing to take none of your teasing. “What’s his name?” 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Y/N. What’s his name?”

“How rude,” you hedge through a smile, “my energies are struggling in this new environment and my stones need charging, and you think I’m all foggy because of some-”

“Shut up, Y/N. I know damn well that your energies are fucked, I can feel it all the way from here. Stick your fucking stones in the moonlight, damn it. But don’t you dare try and get out of this. What’s the fuck’s name?”

“Ryan,” you cave, the eager blip fluttering in your chest seeing you glare at the stones, abandoning them on the windowsill in the hopes bathing in the moon will help. “Stupid fucking things, I swear ever since I’ve moved they’ve been acting up. I tried using them the other morning, right? And nothing, absolutely nothing. They’re not even touching the weird fuzzy whatever-the-fuck thing is going on and making me feel kinda out of it. But oh my god dude, he’s amazing. His eyes are so fucking blue, Laurie, and oh my god his fucking smile!”

“Spill, spill! So help me, Y/N, if I don’t get every juicy detail I’m gonna fly to those mountains and-” 

But you don’t give her to opportunity to finish, pouring your heart into the phone line, agonising over every description, every flirtatious smile, and every heart skipping laugh. “His puns are fucking terrible.”

“Marry him,” she demands, “marry him right now.”

“I’ll make sure to propose as soon as I get to work tomorrow.”

“Wait, he’s your coworker?”

“Lauren,” you fold the words over slowly, feeling her excitement vibrate against your cheek, “he’s practically my boss.”

“YOUR BOSS?! Fuck, Y/N.”

“I know!” you throw yourself sideways, splaying across the couch and grinning at the ceiling. “Trust me, I know. But hey, enough about me. My face is gonna fucking split if I keep thinking about it. Speaking of bosses, how are things with you? How’s Trevor?”

It’s her turn to gush, voice quickening with her enthusiasm. “Dude. DUDE. Cus of you guys moving and shit he decided to take me out. We got all dressed up, and I mean  _ dressed up _ . Heels, black lipstick - I looked like I might kill a bitch. And bitch, I might. But he picks me up and we’re driving, right? And he pulls into a burger joint. My favourite burger joint. So we’re sat there in this grease filled room surrounded by people in pj’s while I’m in this fucking expensive dress and he’s in this hot as fuck tux and bow tie, and Y/N?”

“Don’t tell me,” you giggle, “you fucking loved it, right?”

“I FUCKING LOVED IT.” 

 

\---

 

It takes a while for you to start moving, slumping off the couch and to your knees. Shuffling towards the fireplace, it's as simple as lighting a match; last night's set up of tinder and newspaper catching almost instantly. Lost in the hypnotic flames and the comfort your best friend is always able to provide without even trying, the room is engulfed in amber; warmth wrapping its arms around you as you wander to the kitchen, flick on the kettle, and get a cup ready. Scrounging up what the herbal ingredients you’ve stashed inside the island counter, you’re careful when measuring out quantities, muttering under your breath before starting your tea. A few quick stirs and deep inhales levels you, the feeling of the floor far more solid beneath your feet. 

It's only once you draw your bag closer that you stop, tea pressed to your lips and fingers coming across something smooth.

Drawing the folder out of your bag, you stare at the file. It’s worryingly large. Jam packed with stapled sheets and post it notes, paper clips so heavy the top threatens to fold under the weight. Turning it over in your hands, you come to face the case printed on the front before you drop it like you’ve been stung. Your palm burns, recoiling away as the energy that’d started to smoulder diminishes. Still, the title glares from the floor, demanding your attention as it screams. 

  
  


**Case no. 30574208**

**Head in Charge: Det. Insp. J. Dooley**

**Lumberjack of Motbury** **  
** **Active: 2016 -**

  
  


It’s not the whole file - but it doesn’t have to be; because you can already see the first name poking from beneath the discoloured card. Can already see the smallest section of a lime green coat littered with tiny frogs, caught in the corner frame of a photograph. Can already feel a painful sting encasing your neck uncomfortably. A sharp pain that shoots through the centre of the back of your skull, harsh and demanding.

You’re on your feet in an instant, circling it as though it’s going to lash out with quick, erratic steps. But it doesn’t. It stays deathly still, like the bodies you’re sure remain buried within it. Just photos, sketches blotched with trauma and cross hatched with wounds while the real things rot in the morgue. 

As quickly as you were moving you’re stopping again, cold despite the heat that leaves you suddenly sweltering, skin slick with sweat beneath the numerous layers plastered to your body. 

You know what will happen when you pick it up again.  _ It’s going to consume you _ , you think reproachfully, discarding the offending fabric that has you struggling to breathe, shedding and strewing it across the living room.  _ It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them _ . 

You’d realised what being a detective meant a long time ago, and you’ll never forget. Never be able to ignore the fact that for you to do your job, people had to die. Names had to stack up so you could find the pattern, so you could ram their faces beneath the suspect and hope for some crack in their facade. Hope that one would die covered in stains, or with fingernails chock full of DNA. And when you’d come to rely on a tiny body still clinging to the crime that had seen it taken too soon, you’d been sick. So violently that you’d shaken for weeks. So violently that everything you ate came back up, so you just stopped eating. 

And you could feel it. Feel every sharp wound and tattered bullet hole, limbs so restless that you’d wanted to scream.

Never again, you’d sworn, never fucking again would you pray that the next body would be more broken than the last for the benefit of another. You don’t care if one death could save the many. It didn’t fucking matter if that tiny, tiny person held the key to stopping the next body arriving on the coroner’s doorstep; because a life had still been lost. You’d hoped for it, you’d felt it, because it’s what you needed to do your job. 

A shock of pain shoots through your scalp as your hand swipes through your hair, the old habits of stress already seeing you pull too hard. Gingerly withdrawing your hand, the clump of hair caught between your fingers is enough to spur you forward. Snatching the file from the floor you toss it on the counter, completely intent on storming into the station and ramming it down Dooley’s throat.

But you stop as it falls open, the photo staring at the ceiling far too familiar to ignore. You approach it as though it’s explosive, peering at the treeline you see outside your window every morning, covered in red markings and arrows. Taking it in your hand, you flip the photo over and read the notes jotted on the back with a falling stomach and burning palm.    
  


 

17/04/2018

 

Body, male 10 yo (no. 6). Found 500 meters past tree line.   
Footprints entering. None leaving. 

Within vicinity of victim 3 and 5.

Wounds consistent. Small incision at base of neck. Lacerations.  

  
  


You recognise the handwriting. Jeremy’s scrawl had always been all over your notes, and the later he’d stayed at the office, the worse it had gotten. The curves of his  _ ‘g’s  _ and  _ ‘y’s  _ are clumsy, ink smudging as he’s forced his numb, tired fingers to write down another death. Number 6. And now you have to look, have to see the body that’d reduced him to such sloppy functionality. The body found just beyond your treeline only a week before you’d moved in. 

It’s the lime green coat again, tiny frogs leaping across the thick, puffed fabric donned by a smiling little boy. Mousey blonde hair sticks out at every angle, but he doesn’t seem to care, brown eyes wrinkling in delight while he laughs. You don’t want to look at the picture behind it, but you do. Taking in the tiny body curled in the snow, knees tucked into his chest. If he wasn’t wearing the coat, you wouldn’t be able to tell it’s the small boy from before. Tom, you tell yourself.  _ Number 6 _ . Tom. 

You’ve seen a lot in your professional career, seen more vile, disturbing acts of violence than many can even dream of existing. Felt them prickle across your skin and scratch in your veins, itchy and raw. But this was more perplexing than it was nauseating, but it’s more certainly both of those things. Because rather than a beaten face covered in blonde and bloodied hair, there’s simply nothing at all. 

The neck just…  _ stops _ . 

The wound is there, granted. But it isn’t messy. Blood and gore doesn’t coat the snow, nor does it soil the jacket. But it’s not a clean cut, either. Tattered around the edges, curling, bruised and blackened. Sagging. 

And they’re all the same. As you search through the file’s contents you can’t find a single child with a head. Every body found in the same position, curled up as though they were sleeping. Found in the woods directly surrounding your home. 

_ No wonder this place was so cheap to buy _ . 

Curiosity burns intense over your concern, sitting heavily on one of the stools surrounding the island and shifting through the papers. The more you try to understand, the more confusing the case becomes. No matter how many times you fold it over in your head, you can’t comprehend the information you’re taking in. Only able to feel the pinch at the base of your skull, and a terrifying calm that numbs your chest and makes it harder to breathe.

And honestly it sounds more like an urban legend to scare children into behaving, or scare parents into disciplinary action. Because it just doesn’t make sense. 

At first, it seems, the police force was inundated with complaints. Petrified townsfolk calling in as a snow storm rages through the night, the sound of knocking hammering against their doors. None dared answer. _ A group of kids messing around _ , you assume. And you notice that Jeremy had thought the same. Or perhaps a lost traveller caught in the harsh weather and seeking help. But there were no one there in the morning. Porches untouched by the snow but tattered by something, deep grooves tracing the frames of the entrance with vicious brutality. Camera’s cut out and sensory lights left undisturbed. 

And then the trail of death started. Livestock, in the beginning. Bloody, brutal maulings that eventually left sheep with lolling necks and a glaringly absent skull - as though the bone has been sucked from the skin. But what bothers you isn’t the carnage, nor the senseless violence that has an animal killed and unused. 

It’s the damage, the aggression once the creature was obviously dead. You can see it; can feel just how frenzied it all was. It’s not the first time, either. Every case you’ve witnessed like this leaves you with only one thought. Passionate, you’d argue.  _ Angry _ . But the closer the timeline gets to the current date, the cleaner the kills become. Until they stop all together. 

And the kids start disappearing. 

The first one was just as messy as the livestock. Beaten and bloody, a pile of skin the only remnants of a face. But eventually, even that too disappeared. Like whoever it was, was getting better. Getting into the rhythm.

Your stomach twists, staring down at the file you’ve scattered across your counter. 

_ It’s going to consume you _ , a small, defeated voice whispers in your head while you collect the pages, taking them to the scanner and copying the file before arranging it back the way you’d found it.  _ It’s going to destroy you, just like last time. And just like last time, you won’t be able to help them. _

You head for the car once you’re done, not bothering to wrap up against the cold. 

 

\---

 

The station isn’t fancy, barely recognisable as a place of authority when nestled between the other buildings. But regular shop fronts don’t normally have this many patrol vehicles lined up out front.  _ 2 _ , you correct while your foot meets the curb,  _ only 2 cars _ . The late night doesn’t both you, and neither does the sterile atmosphere you step into. It’s a small space that offers a short line of chairs before the room is cut off by a reception desk, sliding glass protector open wide. Behind the divide you can see what you assume to be the staff room dotted with couches, and offices and files on the opposite side. 

The door shuts gentle behind you, and with it’s quiet click you can hear the frustrated voices approaching the room. You don’t wait for them to arrive and beckon you forward, already moving to the reception and leaning against the ledger. 

“I’m serious, Michael,” comes Jeremy’s exasperation through the walls, “I swear I just fucking had the damn thing.” 

“Obviously not, asshole,” replies Michael smugly, “otherwise we wouldn’t be turning the station upside down.” 

“I don’t get it. I had it at Jon’s, had it when I got into the car…” 

“So you must’ve lost it on the way in this morning.” 

“But I didn’t do anything else with it!” cries Jeremy, finally rounding the corner with his head hung in defeat. 

“You must’ve,” insists Michael, coming into the room moment’s behind him. “If the boss finds out, he’ll be pissed.”

“I am the boss,” Jeremy groans into his hands, oblivious to your presence. 

Michael, however notices you, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What do you want?”

You go to respond, but Jeremy interjects. “The damn case file before my fucking head explodes.”

“Not you, idiot,” laughs Michael, nudging his superior’s hands from his face and motioning to you. “You’re lover.”

“Gross.” Your nose wrinkles distastefully, as does Jeremy’s when he finally spots you. It doesn’t take long for him to beam, despite the teasing. “Never in a million years.”

“I’m way out of your league,” he insists around a comedic frown, “I’m arguably too good to be talking to you. But I will, because it’s weird seeing you back in a police station and I’m concerned.” 

It’s your turn to laugh. “Don’t get used to it. I just wanted to return something I picked up by accident earlier today.”

“If you pull out this missing file I swear Jeremy is gonna fucking come.” 

Jeremy’s expression agrees with Michael’s off-hand joke, the file you pull out of your bag seeing him light up. “Oh thank fuck! I thought I’d lost it, I was about to fire myself!” He takes it eagerly, holding it to his chest with a sigh of relief. 

“Don’t leave your shit lying around next time,” you scold, “especially something as important and weird as that.” 

He’s nodding until he realises the insinuation of what you’ve just said. Even Michael turns to you, the pair studying you critically. “How would you know it was weird?” 

You shrug, seeing no harm in answering Michael’s question honestly. “You think I wasn’t going to look at it?”

“You said you’d never look at another case,” says Jeremy slowly, concern and excitement creating a strange, bubbling concoction in his chest. 

“I didn’t really have a choice,” you admit ruefully, rubbing the back of your neck. “But it looks like you’ve got a serious problem to deal with. They all look… very angry.” 

“Angry?” His brows furrow, casting Michael a quick glance before snatching a pad and jotting the word down. “What do you mean by angry?” 

Instead of answering his question you pose your own. “What do you think it is?”

“A wild animal attack, mostly.” Michael grimaces as the words leave his lips, seemingly upset that they have nothing else to go off. 

But you’re shaking your head, dismissing the thought. “No way this is an animal.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, more out of curiosity than ill intent, “but who the fuck are you, exactly?” 

“Shit,” mutters Jeremy, jumping in before you can introduce yourself. He holds out a hand to you with a broad, proud beam. “This is Detective Inspector Y/N of the L.D. FBI squad. We used to work together, she was my boss.”

“My god... You’re legendary around here.” Michael’s eyes are wide as he offers out a hand for you to shake, his grip firm and eager. “I didn’t realise you and the woman Jeremy’s been raving about were the same person. I thought you retired?”

“I am retired,” you say flatly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nice things!” interjects Jeremy rather quickly, his hand covering Michael’s face to shut him up. He struggles, grunting and pulling away with a yelp. But Jeremy pays the complaints no more mind, now looking at you intently. “Does this mean you’re going to join the team as an external source?” 

“No, I’m sorry Jeremy.”

His face falls. “No no, I get it. I appreciate you bringing it back. I owe you one.” 

“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He eyes you up suspiciously, not trusting the smile crawling across your face. “Actually, I know exactly how you can pay me back.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“So,” starts Ryan conversationally as the pair of you begin to pack up after another productive and messy day, “are you coming in tomorrow? I was going to head into the forest and find some materials, but it’s kinda a two person job.” 

You think about it, brushing free a cloud of sawdust and shower of curled wood shavings. You’ve been working at Hay Woodworks for the past week - even coming in on a weekend more so to selfishly hang out with Ryan than get any work done - and every time you step through the entrance his face lights up. “I might do in the morning,” you say into the shelf you return your project too, “but not for very long. Can we postpone the lumber hunt for another day? I’m volunteering down at the community garden with Geoff in the afternoon.”

“With the kids?” 

“Yeah.” You smile, undeniably excited to be getting involved in the community again. As much as you love working with your hands, and spending as much time as possible with the awkward and blushy man you’ve grown so fond of, you can’t wait to get your hands dirty in the fresh air. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“I can tell,” he teases softly, and you turn to see he’s watching your expression, taking in the warmth of your cheeks and peel of your lips. “You look like you’re going to explode.” 

“This isn’t my explosion face,” you laugh, returning your gloves and mask while pink touches the tops of his ears. “Not even close.”

He looks like he’s struggling to find a witty comeback, eyebrows drawn together and teeth working his bottom lip. With your hands on your hips, you wait expectantly. Ryan lets out a noisy sigh. “I’ve got nothing that’s even remotely appropriate for the workplace.”

“That’s no fun,” you pout, catching his eyes widening, “and that’s never stopped you before.” 

“Yeah, but now I actually really like-” he cuts off abruptly, looking uncomfortable. 

Your eyebrow quirks. “Really like  _ what _ , Ry?” 

“Err, what?” 

“You heard me,” you dismiss, watching him fidget anxiously. “What do you really like?” 

“I really like having a professional work environment.” 

_ Damn, that’s actually a good save _ . Your expression turns rueful, fingers weaving through your hair to swipe away the thought that he might actually be interested, that he might  _ actually really like you _ . Still, you don’t mind, rather enjoying his company as it is. “Sure thing, not-boss.”

“Oh, about that! Wait here.” 

Before you can respond he’s gone, quickly tracking his way to the lone office at the far left side of the building with a series of thunks. You let him go, sighing and trying to calm your hammering heart by rubbing your thumb reassuringly against the small marking decorating your wrist. Gathering up the rest of your things doesn’t take long, swiping your scarf from the chair you’ve claimed as your own and collecting your empty mug. The cold bites now he’s not around. And it’s too quiet, the silence as numb as your fingers become. 

Your skin aches beneath the hot water you start running, managing to fill the sink and cleaning away the crockery before he returns. Hands buried in a tea towel, you raise an eyebrow at the envelope he clings too, but he doesn’t offer you an explanation. “What’s this?” Still nothing, but he holds it out for your curiosity. Taking the offending item, you drag your eyes from the sparkling depths of his, peering inside. “Oh my god, tax file forms?” 

“I figured, if you get it in by tomorrow, you’ll be in the system by the end of the week.”  Something in his smile makes your heart flutter, but not in the way it normally does. It’s not butterflies this time, it’s knots. Warm bundles of comfort constricting your windpipe so you can’t speak. So you can’t quite catch your breath. Blinking furiously, you urge the tears back as his expression grows soft. “Hey, you alright?”

You don’t respond immediately, instead rocketting forward and wrapping your arms around his waist. Caught off guard, you both rock back until he’s embracing you, holding so tight that you’re not sure he heard the mumbled  _ ‘thank you’ _ that’s choked into his shoulder. 

  
  


\---

  
  


“Are you serious Alfredo? Another 2 weeks?” 

“Yeah, I’m so sorry Y/N. Treyco and I just can’t get the airline to budge. And we’ve been tryin’ like a motherfucker.”

You groan into the receiver, wandering through the throngs of children squealing gleefully through the community garden. Like wading through knee high water, you’re careful to give each a smile and gentle nudge forward when the line to collect supplies starts to move. Glancing up at the sky, you scowls accusationally towards the cloudless expanse. “It doesn’t even look like its thinking about raining, let alone a snow storm.” 

“That’s what I told them!” Interjects Trevor, and you can practically see him fisting the front of his hair. “But they didn’t want a bar of it.”

“Well,” you mumble, waving your hand like you’re trying to shake free the frustration crawling under your skin, “at least they booked you onto another flight.” 

“Hell yeah dawg,” chimes Alfredo, relief dripping through your phone and pooling in your palm, “we’re just lucky we already got the place. If you weren’t there to secure the payment we’d be homeless.” 

“Yeah, Fredo’s right. We owe you one, Y/N.” 

“So nothing new then, yeah?” They laugh, and this time your smile is genuine, watching Geoff and the large, freckled man with kind eyes and a bushy red beard - of who you’ve come to know as Jack - man the craft tables. Neither seem at all overwhelmed with the group, making sure each child waits their turn and says thanks before being handed a pouch brimming with pencils, lollipop sticks and cotton balls. Geoff’s arm is already littered with colour, kids having wrestled him willingly to the ground and attacked the empty spaces between his tattoos with colour. “Don’t worry about it guys, seriously. You’ve got a place to stay until the next flight?” 

“We’re all covered here,” reassures Trevor, “Lauren’s looking after us. She leaves for her flight just after we move.”

“Don’t get in her way, she already puts up with enough of your shit, Trev,” you chuckle, eyes drawn to the  _ ‘oooh!’ _ s emanating from the children, flashing lights catching your attention.  The patrol car pulls up slowly, Jeremy’s hair a stark contrast against the pristine landscape as he pulls himself out of the drivers side. Geoff casts Jack a bewildered look before turning his suspicions to you. “I’ve gotta go soon guys, duty calls. But how about you don’t wait a week before talking to me next time?”

“No deal,” rejects Trevor. “Lauren has to put up with my shit. It’s what girlfriends are for.” 

“I agree with ma boy. She knew what would happen when she started dating this asshole.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” you laugh, grinning into the phone, “she’ll kill you. But speaking of, make sure you wish her my best on her trip back to New Zealand, and get her to say hi to her folks for me.”

“I will,” confirms Trevor, rather sullen. “I’m really going to miss her.” 

“Perk up, man. She’ll be back in a couple of months. Hell, we’ve got a room for her here if she wants to move in.” 

“You know what?” He’s eager again, and you can practically see the smile splitting his cheeks. “I haven’t actually asked her cus I didn’t wanna get in the way of her work, but now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t see why I shouldn’t ask her to move in with me.”

“ _ Us _ ,” you correct, “and wait, you’ve never asked her to move in? You’re fucking kidding me. We’re moving halfway across the country, and you didn’t fucking ask before hand?” 

He’s not listening, forcing the phone into Alfredo’s hands while his calls for his girlfriend echo through the house. You roll your eyes, forcing your goodbyes down the line before tapping the call into submission and slipping your phone away. Geoff sidles up beside you, still in shock while Jack goes to welcome an uncomfortable Jeremy into the fray of eager children. “How the fuck did you get him to turn up? I’ve been trying for months.” 

Offering a shrug, you bump your shoulder against his before approaching the excited group that’s forming. “He owes me a favour. Besides, I like watching him squirm.” 

“You’re evil,” laughs Geoff, following your lead, “absolutely evil.” 

“I can’t even deny it.” Now standing in front of Jeremy, you put on your fondest smile, hoping to ease the tensions you hadn’t entirely expected. “Inspector Dooley, how nice to see you again.” 

He grunts a nondescript response, and Jack beams, clapping him on the back. “I guess I should be thanking Y/N for getting you here?” 

“Yeah,” Jeremy admits sheepishly, shooting you a more welcoming smile, “but I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.”

You return the beam enthusiastically, looping your arm through his and leading him back over to the patrol car while Geoff and Jack disperse to gather up the kids, some of them practically vibrating with excitement. Even the parents seem eager, gripping steaming cups and tiny hands. One woman watches the pair of you walk, her eyes distant, as though she doesn’t really see you.  

Once out of earshot you turn to your friend, concerned. “Jeremy, are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He’s not defensive, but his question throws you. 

“You look…” He’s glaring now, and the word you try to pluck from the air worries you far more than his reaction. “Scared.” 

“Scared?” His arms cross over his chest, shoulders tight and chin dipping just a little.

“They’re just kids, Jeremy. They’re not yours, and you don’t have to look after them. Are you really frightened?”

“Well…” He lets out a noisy breath that rattles through the fingers you place on his shoulder. “Yeah, okay. I’m scared.”

It takes you far longer than it should, but when the realisation hits you it’s like a bus. Colour drains from your face, lungs struggling to catch a breath as you watch the man who normally exudes confidence cast a worried glance at the group lining up to see him. “Jeremy, oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I should have known with the case and everything that kids might be a little diffi-”

“You see that woman over there?” You follow his directions, taking in the figure that’d looked right through you moments before, but now your skin screams. A sharp prickling sensation crawling across the base of your skull and seeping across your shoulders. Her lime green coat clings far too large over her fragile frame, eyes in hollow sockets and mousey hair a messy bun that would’ve, honestly, been neater if she’d left it down. She’s looking over, but not at you. Instead her eyes remain locked on Jeremy without quite seeing him, until her fingers curl in a halfhearted wave. “That’s Mrs. Dawson. I had to tell her that Tom wasn’t going to be coming home a few weeks ago. And that she would need to come in and positively identify the body of her son before we could release him into her care. You saw the file, Y/N.” He turns to you, eyes wide and pleading for you to understand why he’s struggling.

And you do. You an see the pain bouncing inside of him, feel the agony and the fear that comes not just by being around the families he’s reduced to tears in their own living rooms, but with the hearts still surrounding him that he’s yet to break. Looking around you can see the nerves, the fluttering of hands around children’s shoulders as parents pat their families to make sure they’re still there. And suddenly you can’t look at their faces, can’t take the beaming smiles and rosy cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he replies with a strong sniff, readjusting his uniform and offering what you want to accept as a smile, “this is a good thing. I can’t let a case get in the way of me living my life, or being a part of this community.” 

“Are you sure? I can tell Geoff what’s happening, I’m sure he’d understand.”

“Nah, and deny these tiny fucks the chance to crawl in the back of a police car?” 

  
  


\---

 

The day goes smoother than expected, afternoon drawing to a close with the pink streaking the sky. To your left Jeremy pretends to handcuff a child for throwing a snowball, which is arguably more like slush at this point, at him. The kid’s enthralled, running around the car while Inspector Dooley chases him clumsily. Relieved would be an understatement. You’re absolutely elated to see that he’s grinning, if not a little breathless, and shrugging his responsibilities and fears from his shoulders. He seems completely unaware of the stone you’d slipped into his pocket, the weight lost with the lightness of his newfound mood.

You share a smile with the supplies you’re gathering up, folding the pouched before returning them to one of the plastic bins lining the crop trays. A couple of well timed shots see balls of wool tumble into the containers, and you’re cocky as the final few follow in quick succession. But you’re more careful when handling the tiny sheep you’ve been given, children beaming when handing over the slightly damp creations before running for cover behind their parent’s legs. You take it as a positive, that they like you, and that you’re welcome back; something that Jack and Geoff insist on. 

They stand just a little further away, lower halves of their bodies buried in the foliage Jack so diligently tends to, hands gesturing animatedly as they talk.

“They’re great guys,” comes a murmur from behind, and you whirl in surprise to face Ryan; his expression soft as he takes in the two men moving out of the cold and onto the porch. “They’ve done nothing but good for this place. Oh! Hey, by the way.” 

The smile’s there before he finishes talking, cracking your cheeks. “Hey yourself. Did you come all this way to see me?”

He smirks, the cup clasped in his hand smelling distinctly of chocolate. “If by ‘all this way’ you mean that I walked for 15 minutes across town to get here, then yes. But not for you, I came for Geoff.”

You know it shouldn’t, but your face falls. You do your best to hide the disappointment, nodding to the pair and wrapping your scarf around your neck. “Your prince awaits.”

“Thanks,” he replies, moving to start his ascent towards the two men before he turns quickly, pressing the cup into your hands and leaning incredibly close to whisper in your ear. “And I did walk all this way for you, silly.” He pulls away, pleased by your shell shocked expression and the undeniable blush rising in your cheeks, one you’re certain mirrors his. “Wait for me? I’ll be back in a bit.” 

And you do. Not sure whether it’s because you want to, or whether you’re frozen in place; but you watch him follow Geoff and Jack onto the porch, his silhouette casting large shadows against the wooden panels in the warm orange glow. Somehow the cup makes it to your lips, a tentative sip thawing you out. Fingers drift to your pocket, touch of the warm stone nestled away releasing the nerves and helping you calm your hammering heart.

The light is going quickly, streaks of pinks now mixing with the dark blotches of the night sky. Busying with the remaining jobs to be done, you’re soon proudly standing before 2 well packed bins - arguably neater than when you’d received them. Considering the balancing act that’ll be required to get them into the house, you’re grateful when Jeremy joins at your side. Close enough for you to pickpocket back your charms, his face is flushed, bitten by joy and the cold of winter. His smile is equally pleasant. “You need some help?” 

“That would be fantastic.” 

He grabs the container on the left before eyeing up your half empty cup suspiciously, and you swipe and down it before he can drain the contents. “Where’s mine?”

You shrug, collecting your bin and heading towards the porch, the men that’d occupied it now disappearing inside. “Guess Ryan doesn’t have a big enough crush on you to bring you a drink.”

The scowl setting his features is obvious, even in the dwindling light. “Ryan’s here?” 

Again paranoia takes refuge in your stomach at the sight of his shift, as as your boot hits the first step you cast him a look of concern. “What’s your problem with him? He’s nice.”

“You only think that cus he’s hot.”

“Well, he is hot,” you insist, “but that’s not the reason. Whenever he’s mentioned you it always seems like you’re friends. But you’re very… aggressive about him.”

He struggles this time, chewing over the words he wants to say, hoping they form a sentence. All he forms is a measly, “yeah, well. Whatever.”

Your eyebrow quirks, shoulder gently easing the door open for warm air to engulf you, cheerful voices and laughter bouncing against your skin. Facing the gentle whistle you recognise instantly as a kettle, you smile into the comfortable room and take in the plush chairs begging for your attention.  “All I get is a whatever, Jeremy? I’ve known you for, what, 4 years? And I get a whatever?”

But he’s gone, the bin places beside the door as it clicks shut. The distant sound of the patrol car starting accompanies the chimes of your aching heart, peering out the window with a frown while he peels away. 3 men join you, all watching him go with similar expressions. 

“What did you do to piss him off?”

“I dunno, Geoff. I really… I really don’t know.” You turn to them, looking for the answers you know they don’t have. All look puzzled, but Ryan’s face crumples with his attempts to keep from seeming hurt. At the sight your heart doesn’t just ache, it screams, your hand shooting out to take his. “C’mon, fuckface. You’re walking me home.”

He shakes out of it, his usual blush colouring his cheeks as that damn smile decorates his lips. “Yes ma’am.”


	7. Chapter 7

_ The wind is picking up _ , you notice, _ and it’s starting to scream _ . 

 

You shudder, pulling your coat closer and instinctively leaning into Ryan’s side, eyes scanning the treeline closing in your home. Barely visible, the lodge is just a blot of colour between the flurry of snow tumbling from the sky, shape merging with the darkness of a cold, bone rattling night. And you can’t tell if it’s the dark that scares you, or the trunks lined like soldiers glaring daggers as you stumble up the front steps - but something inside you screams too. Pooling in your stomach, cold and sticky. A sense of urgency seeing your hands shake and key miss the hole on your first two attempts until Ryan kindly takes over.

He doesn’t seem concerned, key sliding into the lock easily before the door swings open and you scamper inside. A gust of wind follows, snow clinging to your back. Even now something doesn’t feel right. It’s far too empty. The cold corners shift in the dark, windows rattling with every wail of the night trying desperately to get in. Hands held tight against your chest, you try not to seem to shaken, but the trembles tracing through your spine aren’t from the chilly night.

He knows it, too. But in the dark his features don’t seem as soft, eyes buried in bruising circles and mouth drawn into a thin grim line. The curves of his shoulders are sharp, strong hands curling like snare traps as he rubs them together for warmth. Even the space around him seems to throb in the low light, eyes straining to see the shape of him squirm. Darkness tainting the smile he offers into a wicked, vicious grin.

A step forward has him calling your name, and in your haste to turn the lights on the room floods with colour, bright enough to have you both squinting. The wind seems fainter, coming to terms with the fact it can’t come in. And the relief that washes over you is instant, but the hammering of your heart does little for your nerves.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

You provide him with a nod and shaky exhale, plastering on what you hope to be a confident smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just not used to the noise.”

“It’s your first snowstorm, right?” he asks gently, as though you’re going to break. After another nod, he softens even more. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ve got all of the supplies I’m going to need, just in case I’m trapped in for a few days,” you manage in what comes across as a relatively pleasant tone. Making your way towards the kettle you begin listing, hands diving for your herbs. “Canned food, water, matches and a torch-”

“I don’t mean whether you’re prepared,” he dismisses, taking another step forward and leaning across the counter towards you, his concern melting the ice churning in your chest. “I’m asking whether you’re going to be okay. These things are fucking terrifying with people around, and you’re on your own.”

Making the tea brings with it a sense of routine, of normalcy. Loading up the cup with different herbs and spices, the smell has you relaxing before it even touches your lips. Moving becomes a little easier, but you’re still too apprehensive to cross the room and start a fire. Eventually, after his questioning expression doesn’t relent, you roll your eyes. “Alright, so I’m a little freaked out.”

“I can see that,” he smirks.

“Har har, let’s pick on the girl that’s too afraid to go near the windows right now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah…” the word comes out as a tiny squeak and his face falls at the sound.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Ryan,” you start, ready to reject the offer for fear of him going to too much trouble, “you really don’t have to do that. I’m going to have to face the storms eventually.”

“Y/N, I’m serious. I don’t think I could sleep tonight if I knew that being here would make the whole thing less scary.” He smiles, a sad upturn of the lips that has your heart aching. He asks again. “Would you like me to stay?”

“Yes please,” you manage, and he starts to move. “But what if we get snowed in?”

“Then you’re stuck with me, I guess. At least I’ll make a tasty meal.”

“Yeah you will…”

“What?”

“What?”

 

\---

 

After his third trip outside to bring in more firewood you stop him, hand catching him at the elbow as he turns to venture out again. Shaken out of a daze he throws you a confused look, but all you do is smile; removing his jacket so he has no other option than to stay indoors. “You’ve been at this for an hour,” you tell him, taking his forearm and leading him to the couch, “you need to take a break, Ryan. If you’re not careful you’ll get stuck out there.”

A gentle nudge sees him fall willingly into the cushions, body bouncing as he accepts his fate with a relieved smile. He’s not at all pleased with the glance you cast to the stovetop, snatching your hand in his, electricity shooting through your wrist. He brings you down beside him, wrapping a playful arm around your shoulder and anchoring you to the sofa. You can’t help leaning into him, knees tucking up and head resting against his shoulder. “Fine,” he sighs dramatically, jabbing you playfully in the forehead before letting his cheek press into your hair, “but you’ve gotta relax as well.”

“I’m cooking,” you insist, not quite ready to worm your way out of his arms, “you do wanna eat, right?”

He considers this thoroughly, pensive in the warm glow of the fire. Amber licks at the strength of his jaw, turning his hair to rich gold. Absentminded fingers leave trails of thoughtful swirls against your arm, your eyes dropping with the comfort that fills you. “I’ll eat if I have too. But not right now.”

“If you have too?” Your eyebrow raises, incredibly aware of how close you press into him, his gentle, lopsided smile making your heart flutter as you peer up to greet a set of crystal lakes caught in the fade of a sunset. “Since when do you turn down food?”

“Since I’ve got you sat next to me with a nice fire,” he admits bashfully, sinking further into the couch with a subdued sigh. “Besides, you’ve had a busy day. You deserve to chill out by the fire. I should be taking care of you.”

The blush rising in your cheeks is so obvious that you’re certain being painted red would be less of a giveaway. “You have been looking after me,” you remind, motioning to the stacks of wood and numerous blankets he’s set up downstairs, “you’ve practically built a fort. Cooking dinner is the least I can do to say thanks for staying with my scared ass.”

“Nah, this is perfect.” Ryan gives you a firm squeeze, watching the flames in favour of getting lost in your soft expression. “And I told you, I’m happy to stay. Believe it or not, I actually enjoy your company.”

“I choose not to believe it,” you retort with a grin, the sound of bubbling from the back of the kitchen prompting your will to leave. Starting to move, you slip from his arms and clamber from the couch with a grimace. But he’s not eager to see you go, an arm looping around your waist before you can take your first step. You give a tentative tug, testing his strength and realising he has no intention of letting you leave. You frown, twisting in his arms as he redirects you back to the couch, knees hitting the cushions. Your struggles are useless, but you’d be lying if you said you were trying. “Hey, c’mon. No fair!”

“Nope, you will relax and enjoy yourself, damn it,” he chuckles, unfazed by your squirming laughter. “You’re going to sit here and like it.”

“But dinner’s gonna burn!”

“Then we’ll order pizza.”

“In a snowstorm?” you demand, managing to face the kitchen and start scampering over the back of the couch. It doesn’t quite work, his hold still strong and unwavering. “That’s cruel and inhumane for the delivery guy.”

“We’ve got a few hours before the worst of it hits,” he muses, and you feel his shrug in your stomach. “If worst comes to worst, we can always eat cold soup.”

“But I’m making hot soup,” you huff, attempting to find some purchase beneath your feet, but left with nothing after another gentle tug from Ryan. Sliding across his chest you take the opportunity to reposition, pouncing over his shoulder in the hopes of clearing the couch.

He doesn’t even flinch, sighing noisily as his hands snag your thighs to stop you getaway. “Oh no you don’t!” Through your escape attempts he manages to pull you back, the force of both of your struggles seeing you land firmly in his lap. Your knees clamp around him instinctively, hands planted against his burning chest to steady yourself and delighted by the shock of anticipation coursing through your veins.

It takes a moment to convince yourself to look at him, noticing the looseness of his hands. Your worried at first, until you take in the surprise caught in his eyes and the tentative way his tongue wets his lips. A spark of heat pools in your stomach, deep and aching, the steady drip of warmth practically begging for movement. When neither of you speaks your arms drape across his shoulders, hands lingering against the back of his neck while his come to rest on your hips.

“Well,” he manages, husky as he tries to work through the haze the pressure of you brings, “this is not something I intended.”

“This is not something I mind,” you respond, face inching closer, eyes struggling to keep from tracing the curve of his lips, to ignore the way your hands itch to roam.

The smile pressed to his mouth isn’t playful anymore. It’s tender and sweet as he retracts a hand from your thigh, lifting up your chin and pulling you even closer. A thrill shivers through you, his palm hot as it cups your cheek, thumb swiping across your bottom lip and earning a gentle kiss. Ryan shifts beneath you, a shudder of his own ricocheting through your bodies and settling inside you. “Do you feel like relaxing yet?”

Beneath the warmth of the fireplace and the strength of his hands, you can’t help but melt. And as the wind picks up outside and the windows rattle, you’re more comfortable than you’ve ever been. Smells of pine and old sawdust leaves you intoxicated, caught in the expression that’s starting to feel more and more like home. The soft curve of his breathless smile mirrors your own, bodies flush together as your forehead rests against his. You want to laugh, want to sing with the excitement that dances through your body and exhilaration that sees your heart beat like a song. But you keep it together, locked in the arms that stop you from falling apart. Gently brushing back the lock of hair that never seems to cooperate, you’re smiling. A silly, dopey smile of a teenager caught in the whirlwind of a first love. But it’s more than that, and the way he peers longingly through his lashes tells you it’s not all in your head.

“It all depends,” you murmur, fingers working through the half hearted curls tracing the nape of his neck. You’re so close that your words barely brush against his lips, tantalizing and leaving you aching.  “Would you like to join me?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You bring your lips to his, swallowing the end of his sentence while a hand moves to cup his jaw. He sighs into the contact, holding you against him as your mouths move together, hands roaming your back. Gentle at first, soft lips moulding together until something inside you snaps. A leisurely swipe of your tongue has his breath catching, letting you in and caressing the inside of his mouth with a deepening kiss.

Taking his bottom lip between your teeth you tug gently, accepting the shuddering moan that trembles from him. A hand keeps you in place, firm and commanding as it buries in your hair and crushes you against him. Ryan shimmies into sitting, fingers still clinging to your thigh and squeezing, and you gasp, thrilled and passionate as you rock against him. Desperate for more, mad with the need to touch him, to feel him against you - and he’s happy to oblige.

After a minute you break apart, chest heaving and taking the opportunity to breathe. Ryan doesn’t need such luxury, descending on the exposed skin of your neck with weighted kisses and grazing teeth. The crackling of the roaring fire in barely audible over the sound of your hammering hearts, and nothing in comparison to the arousal snapping across your skin; shooting through your core as he catches your collarbone with his teeth. Caving into him, Ryan twitches beneath the soft cuss that slips from your lips, hard against your inner thigh.

A blissful smile takes over, dizzy as he runs his hands up and down your sides, fingers trailing across your ribcage and waist underneath your jumper. You smirk, hand running through the mess you’ve made of his hair, lost in the depths of his shining eyes. “If I’d known it’d be this easy, I’d have asked you to stay over sooner.”

“Oh, I’m easy am I?” He chuckles into your neck, returning to his kissing and breathing you in. He pulls away unwillingly once you start to move, but his expression grows heavy as you lift your jumper up and over your head. His next snarky comment dies in his throat, lost in his admiration of your body, content in counting the freckles that litter your skin like stars. Overjoyed to trace the faded outlines of scars that curve into clusters of spirals and sharp lines, pale and silver in the firelight.

You smirk, redirecting his face to yours and practically purring out his name. “You’re very easy.”

“Maybe we should make it a little harder then?” At his words he’s kissing you again, seizing your lips and quickening his bruising movements against your mouth. A thrust upward as you gasping, tongue sliding against his and fingers locking in his hair. You match his next thrust, grinding hard against his throbbing cock and sharing his moan.

He still manages to makes quick work of your bra despite his movements, fiddling until the hooks release and you shudder in expectation. Slipping free, the offending fabric is tossed to the side, nipples hardening in the fresh air and aching for attention. Ryan wastes no time in filling his hands, palms massaging the soft flesh with a few well timed squeezes that have you moaning.

With an arm that winds around your waist he pulls you tight against him, mouth finding your nipple after a peppering of teasing kisses. You tug on his hair, head falling back as he swirls tongue it in a few teasing flicks. His eyes don’t leave your face, bottom lip drawn between your teeth as he sucks and nibbles, attention to detail reducing you to a trembling mass of moans while the fire in your belly demands more.

You don’t give him time to work your other breast, hand snaking between your bodies and brushing him through his pants, palming until he swears. Ryan’s head falls back against the couch, sweet whispers greeting the ceiling as his eyes grow heavy. As much as you want to stare at the sight of his pleasure forever, you find the zipper with ease, slipping from him and removing his jeans in a few swift tugs. Settling between his legs, the floor bites, cold shaking through your knees and wetness spreading.

His eyes widen, expression hungry as your fingers run around his waistband, tugging off his underwear and taking him into your mouth so quickly that he gasps. Large hands wind into your hair, moving with the steady, playful pace you set. Filling your mouth and aching your jaw, each touch of your tongue seeing his eyebrows draw together until his eyes fall shut.

He thrusts into you once, testing the boundaries before you take him in further, flicking your tongue across his head after you draw back, a firm stroke following. He growls, a pant of ‘oh yeah, definitely relaxed’ making you chuckle around his length, earning you another welcomed thrust.

“I dunno,” you hum, pausing around the tip of his cock while your hands continue to work. He moans expectantly while he strokes your hair back, a few well timed kisses making him wild. “I think we could do better.”

His eyes snap open, so greedy that he’s tugging you into his lap and kissing you with bruising ferocity before you can let out a laugh. But you don’t mind, desperate to have him closer, nails tracing the strength on his shoulders and removing his plaid shirt. Bare skin greets your fingertips, strong muscles and soft skin burning beneath your touch.

You don’t have time to admire him like you want too, unable to truly appreciate the sharpness of his collarbones and curves of his shoulders, because once the shirt’s gone you’re being moved. An arm winds around your waist, cradling your body against his naked figure while Ryan leads you into the couch cushions, the absent weight of him driving you crazy. He hovers above you, a cheeky, intoxicated smirk making your heart race. “Oh don’t worry,” he murmurs, tracing the line of your pants with two teasing fingers, “I‘m sure we can.”

You moan, every touch leaving trails of fire across your skin, shudders making your legs weak. “Get on with it, then.”

Ryan quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't complain. Instead he works on the button and removes your pants and underwear while he kisses you, tongues exploring each other until you’re dizzy. And then he’s guiding your legs apart, squeezing parts of your thigh and scraping his nails up and down your leg.

He groans when he finally glides his fingers between your soft, wet folds. Running along the length and enjoying the sound of your moans as though they’re music. He eases his weight onto you, the occasional cluster of kisses pressing against your throat. Teeth grazing sensitive skin, chuckles with the nails you embed in his skin tickling through your collar bone. And you can’t help it, whimpering as he draws agonisingly slow, lazy circles against your clit.

The first hooked finger diving into your opening comes as a welcome surprise, his thumb still teasing the bundle of nerves. Your body bucks without permission, pleading for more. A second finger and he’s hitting the aching spot deep inside of you, pleasure knotting in your stomach and cusses tumbling down your front.  

He presses his face into your neck, tongue lingering on your jawline while his voice chases goosebumps across your body. Deep and husky, loaded with longing. “Do you want me, Y/N?”

“ _ Fuck,  _ Ryan,” you moan, arching into his hand as he continues to work. His palm hits your clit, sliding so easily that your breath is quickening, body a mess of tight trembles. You can feel yourself building, the heat intensifying with every ache of pleasure.

He dots your temple with kisses, drawing your gazes from the ceiling. Your lost in his eyes, just like his voice is lost beneath another whimpering moan. “Do you want to come for me, Y/N?”

“Please…” you half beg, clawing at his shoulders, “oh god, please, Ryan.”

Removing his fingers you all but groan in disappointment, but then he’s pushing your legs up, slowly easing into you while his eyes droop shut. Your back arches, desperate for more, and you’re not disappointed, forced into the cushions as he presses as deep as he can. Ryan fills you until he’s buried to the hilt, breathless and moaning into the frantic, clumsy kiss you pull his face down for.

Yanking his eyes to yours, you can’t break away from the piercing blue that’s driven you mad from day one, his face caught in your desperate grip. You can’t take it anymore, aching with the need for him. “Fuck me, Ryan.”

He doesn’t hesitate, hips beginning to move. Infuriatingly slow at first, rhythmic and smooth. It’s not until you hook your legs around him that he speeds up, hand fisting in your hair as he starts to pounding with your orders ringing in his ears. You meet every thrust, couch scraping your skin and his teeth grazing harsh against your throat. Desperate kisses, and tangled limbs; the pleasure inside you building so much that you’re not sure you can take much more.

You’re close to unravelling, panting and caught between moans and frantic lips. A sneaky hand tries to slide between your bodies but his thumb gets their first, his hips moving wildly as he swipes across your clit. And then everything comes crashing down. His name is the only thing you can remember, called over and over again as though it’s all that’s holding you to this earth. Like it’s all that matters, and that it’ll somehow keep you above the waves of pleasure shuddering across you both.

He’s not far behind, tumbling over the edge as you throb and tighten around him, holding you impossibly close while he starts to spill out around you. He presses your named against your lips in a lasting kiss and you gladly swallow his trembles until he’s spent, body weak and collapsing against you.

Stilling together, you both try and catch your breath, neither wanting to move. The way he looks at you makes your pulse quicken, adoring and bewildered. If you could stay with your arms around his neck for the rest of your life you would, but his face contorts slightly, and you mirror the expression.

“Do you smell burning?”

He rockets up, snagging his underwear and hopping into it on the way to the kitchen. You laugh, feeling so light you’re surprised you haven’t hit the ceiling.

“Soup’s burnt,” he calls, frowning into the saucepan after turning off the heat, “where are the take out menus?”


	8. Chapter 8

You’re not sure what wakes you, but you rocket from the couch with a gasp. Blankets encase your body, knees sore and shoulders set. Eyes stinging with the late night spent awake and laughing. And to your surprise, the fire’s out. The wood in the hearth remains still and cool, no cracks to release embers and nothing but faint smoke drifting up the chimney. 

Ryan’s curled in the armchair, a bundle of bedding keeping him warm despite the stinging chill infesting the room. All that’s visible is his hair, silken in the moonlight that struggles through the storm. The careful rise and fall of his figure makes you relax a little, and you manage to convince yourself that stepping out of the makeshift bed is a good idea. 

But everything past your cocoon of blankets feels wrong. Like it’s holding its breath and wishing the night was over. You can feel it, heavy in your chest and against your throat. Hammering against your ribs with the anxious actions of your heart. 

You haven’t felt something like this in a long time. Negativity crawling up your windpipe and filling your mouth with bitterness. Shoulders raw with straining, every muscle in your body so tightly wound that they scream. And a pain so distinctive at the base of your skull that as it spreads around your neck you struggle to swallow. 

The floorboards are so cold they sting when you stand, angry spasms twitching into your kneecaps. You bring the blankets with you, draped around your shoulders and offering a small semblance of comfort. 

 

But it’s not enough.

 

Ice grips the window sills, carving at the glass with hungry, wicked fingers, frozen daggers clinking precariously from the exterior eaves. Like the weather’s trying to devour the house, leaching the life from everything it touches. And you can’t see through the snow. Drawing closer, the creaking of trees is barely audible above the roar singing outside. 

You’re bounding into the kitchen before you can stop to think, diving into cupboards and rifling through the organised draws.  _ How could you be so stupid _ , you scold, fingers curling around the bundle of rosemary and sage, twine scratchy and stiff.  _ How could you forget? _

Numb fingers don’t bother with a match, instead jamming the end of the stick into the flames of the gas stove, clicking incessant as you will the damn thing to light. Willing it to work, and praying that it isn’t too late. 

It sputters to life and your stomach leaps with the thick, distinct smell of Cedar and Sweetgrass churning from the bundle. Containing the flame so that all that’s left is a gentle smouldering of ash you race back to the living room, raising the stick above your head and fanning the smoke across the doorway. 

A quick glance to Ryan tells you that he hasn’t stirred, too lost in sleep to feel the panic and urgency trembling through your body. 

 

_ Deep breaths, calm energy _ , you tell yourself.  _ Deep breaths, calm energy, and confidence _ . 

 

You clear your throat, drawing in the scent and trying to shut out the storm, wind growing angry as it circles your home. “Cleanse, dismiss, dispel.” Your voice doesn’t waver, firm in it’s whisper. 

The windows rattle. 

“Cleanse, dismiss, dispel. You are not welcome here.” 

You trace your way around the room, letting smoke linger in every corner and smudging each window. But the feeling grows worse, frustrated and pressing against your chest. With a tightening throat you continue, forcing yourself as close to the windows as you dare go. It’s hard to ignore the darkness, avoid the flashes of distant light you’re certain aren’t just stars. 

“Cleanse, dismiss, dispel. You are not welcome here.” 

It only takes 10 minutes for you to make a loop around the room, Ryan slumbering peacefully as he’s engulfed in the protective blanket of smoke. And as soon as the circle closes the weight lifts, talons that’d been digging into your back releasing their hold. You want to collapse, knees begging to buckle with the exhaustion that sets in, and although you can’t feel it touching you anymore, you know it’s there. Abandoning the stick, you toss it into the fireplace, its smoke chugging up the chimney and filtering to the grounds. With it comes a silence, but it’s not one of comfort like you plead for it to be. 

 

Instead it’s eerie.

 

It’s waiting.

 

And then the wind screams. A high pitched, layered and hair raising screech that scuttles between the trees and across the blanketed ground outside, rattling against the glass. You take a stumbled step back, shrill, animalistic snarls clawing towards your clumsy feet. And it hurts, a howl so viceral it’s as though it’s torn its way from the centre of your chest, tattered and agonisingly sharp. 

“Don’t go near the windows.” 

Ryan stands by the armchair, incredibly still and watching your back. You can’t bring yourself to face him, too desperate to make out the odd blot that seems like it’s moving between the scattering of snow. Instead your words are hollow, breathless. “What is it?” 

“Just, keep away from the walls and stay in the centre of the room.”

“Ryan?” You can feel the confusion pooling,  the need to know just what is fighting back against your protections and leaving you terrified. The glass that you’re stuck staring at shudders with every lashing of the wind. “What-?”

 

_ Bang… bang… bang… _

 

Everything in you freezes, goosebumps worming to the skin's surface. It shouldn’t be able to touch the walls. Shouldn’t be able to make it up the steps and reach out for the entrance. But it has. Your attention draws to the front door, nothing but a faint outline that groans beneath the pounding of the storm. 

No, not the storm. Beneath the pounding of what sounds like fists. 

It’s suddenly uncomfortably quiet, room loaded with the fear that sees your limbs aching and shoulders so tight can feel them work into knots. Every breath is difficult, trembling between frozen lips and catching on your sharp tongue. You don’t hear Ryan come up behind you, but his hand finds yours as another more frantic knock sounds against your home. 

 

_ Bang… bang… bang… _

 

Somehow you manage to find your voice, thick as it crawls up your throat and clings to your front. “Someone’s as the door.” 

It has to be a someone, you tell yourself. There’s no way anything else would be able to stand the smoke. It had to be a person on the other side, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to make it to the porch. Has to be someone otherwise the fear that’s infecting your body and rendering it useless wouldn’t be so strong as it pleads for safety. Pleads to come inside.

“No one’s at the door,” he murmurs, not able to break away from the source of the sound. Still, his grip on you tightens. 

“It’s stuck in the stor-”

 

_ Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang _

 

You can’t feel your legs, the urgent demands of whoever’s on the other side rooting you in place. If it weren’t for Ryan your knees would happily buckle. He positions himself between you and the sound, shoulders curling protectively around your body, but eyes still glued to the wood as another crash of knocks hammer violently. “No one’s at the door, Y/N.” 

And in that moment you question if you’re crazy, if somehow you’re dreaming the whole thing or if, somehow, Ryan can’t hear the noise. Can’t see the black throbbing in the doorway, or simply refuses to acknowledge it. finally your petrified and tiny shudder catches his attention, his shining eyes meeting yours. Tentatively he pulls your head to his chest, arms working around you as though he’s trying to muffle the sound. 

But it doesn’t help because it’s not the knocking that bothers you, it’s the fact you can’t tell what it is. Can’t feel its heart pounding in your chest, can’t tell if its a man or a monster or a combination of the two. And can’t tell why your charms aren’t working.

The sound has moved. A sickening scrape shifting along the log exterior until it's tapping at the window behind you. Everything screams, you back crawling with cold fingers, and Ryan’s rubbing comforting circles into you. He lowers the pair of you onto the floor, knees relieved to feel the panels biting skin. He doesn’t let you go, staring at the window. “Don’t ever check, cus there’s never anyone there.” 

“What’s happening?” you all but beg, dry tears threatening to seal off your throat with the wringing of your lungs. 

And then he starts to hum. Soft, gentle tones that seem far too harsh in the silence and screaming wind. He rocks, and you move along with him, ears no longer straining to hear through his biceps. “Don’t worry, Dear,” he breathes, holding you close. “It’ll stop soon.”

  
  


\---

 

You don’t know how you managed it, but eventually a deep, possessive sleep takes hold at some point during the night. Last night is nothing more than a sluggish memory you can’t quite grasp, and the sunlight burns far too bright as a gentle groan escapes into the blankets. It takes a few moments for you to realise you’re in a bed as opposed to the hard, solid ground you can’t remember leaving, and another few to comprehend the time blaring at you from the clock once you roll over. 

 

2:23pm

 

A tight spasm shoots through your temple, head aching horribly as you pull into sitting and look around. It’s as though you’ve been here all night, sheets sufficiently messy and clothes strewn in the general direction of the laundry hamper. But the tea that sits on the nightstand is fresh, if not a little cold. The sight of it makes you smile, mind wandering to Ryan, and soon your feet do the same. Swinging out from the bed and pressing into the rug, a stretch and yawn seeing your body pop. 

The lodge is already pleasantly warm,  the sound of a fire crackling leading you down the stairs with your tea in hand. It’s only once you pull into the living room and call out for him that you realise you’re alone, left to dwell in a home that seems too empty for just you. No longer do the windows shiver in their frames or threaten to burst, the wood comfortably quiet now the storm has died down. You can’t find any fear buried in the couch as you move to stand where you’d been kneeling hours before, taking in your surroundings.

You can feel the barriers you’d set up last night, battered but still standing strong. Hugging the walls and draping over the doors. Grateful, the smudge stick seems to have been taken with the new flames dancing in the hearth, spreading the smell of rosemary and white sage through the house and dusting it across the landscape outside. Whatever was out there, you hope, won’t be bothering you again. Not any time soon, at least. Not now that the protection charms have been set up in advance, and not now that you’re planning on strengthening every boundary you can.  

Relief washes over you, and for a moment you stop caring that you don’t know what it was, or how Ryan knew what to do. Instead you just breathe, taking in the light of the morning and sweet, musty smells of a smudge stick. But it doesn’t last long, the rap on the door dragging you once again into movement. Pulling it open you’re surprised to see a patrol car parked on your front lawn and clumsy footprints wobbling through the snow. 

“Hi, Y/N,” greets Jeremy grimmly, looking sullen and cold. Deep hollows trace his eyes, face caught between days without sleep. An exhausted pang shoots through your temple. “You mind if I come in?” 

“Go for it.” Stepping aside he trudged into your home, shivering before removing his coat and folding it over his arm. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry if I woke you up, but I’m here on police business.”

Your stomach drops, and you know he can see it squirm in the way you fidget. Desperate to do something with your hands you make your way to the microwave, nuking your tea before turning to him. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve lost another kid.” But he didn’t need to say it, because you already knew. It’s obvious from the set of his brow and the tightness of his shoulders. “Last night during the storm a young girl went missing.”

“What time?” 

The question catches him off guard, and he warily pulls out a file from his bag, and with a start you notice it’s jammed full of information. He flips through it, free hand coming to rub his exhausted face. “About 4am. Laura Hannon, 6, went-”

You stop him with a statement that has his blood running cold, face draining of colour and mouth popping open into a grimace. “Went missing during the worst part of the storm.”

“How did you know that?” 

“I’ve read some of the files on this Lumberjack guy, J. Besides…” You chew your bottom lip, picking at the chapping flesh nervously. He can see there’s more you want to say, and motions for you to take a seat in your own chair. You don’t argue, sitting down and leaving your tea to cool yet again. “Someone was knocking on my door last night just before the worst of it hit. I thought it was the wind, but I was told not to answer it.” 

“Wait.” Jeremy’s face contorts into an expression you’ve seen far too often, one that he’s worn during every investigation. One of suspicion, of doubt and a burning desperation for a lead. “Who told you not to answer the door, and why?”

“Ryan,” you admit, expecting his lips to draw into a thin, displeased line. Instead his eyes set while you continue. “I was scared to be on my own during my first snow storm, and he offered to stay. Something woke me up in the middle of the night, and then someone was knocking. He said not to go near the windows or the door, just in case.” 

“Why?”

“I dunno. He probably thought it was an animal.”

“What time did you wake up?” 

“About…” you wrack your brain, taking your best guess. “I don’t know, about 2 in the morning?” 

“And then what happened? I need you to tell me everything, Y/N.” 

“I know how this shit works, Jeremy,” you snap.

He sees he’s trodden on a line and backs away from it with a surrendering raise of his hands. “Sorry, just - just this could be a big lead if you heard something. Or  _ saw  _ something.” 

“I woke up and it was completely dark. Storm was still going, so I went to have a look. Then I heard a weird animal scream, and Ryan told me to get away from the windows. I asked him why, but then someone half tried to knock the door down to get in. I eventually fell asleep and only woke up a few minutes ago.” 

He seems a little more apprehensive to ask the next question, oblivious to the fact you’ve avoided the smudge sticks and negative feelings you’re certain he’d brush away. “And where’s Ryan?”

“Not here.”

“When did he leave?” 

This startles you, and you find yourself worrying. “I don’t know. I fell asleep around 3 or something, but I doubt he’d leave in the middle of the night. He was pretty insistent on not going into the storm. He’s probably at work.” 

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

You bristle. “He doesn’t need my permission to live his life.”

It’s quite for an awkwardly prolonged and apologetic moment while Jeremy sighs and moves to stand, groaning as though the conversation has aged him. “Well, I mostly wanted to let you know that we’ll be searching the trees around your property,” he starts, “but seeing as you’ve experienced the knocking I want you to keep in touch if you hear or see anything else. Or if you remember anything, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

He goes to leave, stopping in the doorway while you hover. “And, Y/N, please be careful.” 

“Jeremy?”

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I have access to the police files?”

 

He doesn’t turn, but you can tell his smiling with relief. “Of course. Head on over whenever.” 


	9. Chapter 9

“I fucked him.” You sigh noisily over Lauren’s ecstatic squeals, sinking in your seat.

“You did what?! Oh my god, Y/N, tell me _everything_.”

“Dude...” You don’t know where to start, the night playing itself over and over again in your head. “It was incredible. I don’t even know how to explain it.”

“Was it romantic, or more like _‘fuck me now’_?” You can hear her pacing, like she can’t sit still. Her energy trembling through the phone line.

“Romantic, I guess? He stayed with me during a mild snow storm, and I ended up on his lap-”

“How do you just end up on someone’s lap?” she demands through a laugh, continuing to call away from the receiver and into, presumably, another room. “You owe me 20 bucks, Trev. I told you she’d fuck him!”

“Wait!” You can hear scuffling, the familiar voice of Trevor growing closer. “Y/N, you fucked him?”

“I most certainly did, now pay your woman.”

She laughs, the sound of crinkled notes being handed over accompanied by a begrudging grumble. “Nah, he’s my woman now, bitch.”

“Was it at least good sex?” He doesn’t sound at all defeated, instead he’s rather eager. “Am I paying Ren Ren because you had good sex with a strapping lumberjack?”

“Does that make me a prostitute if money’s changing hands?” you ask, trying to wrap your head around his teasing.

“Someone’s a prostitute in this situation,” Lauren agrees. “It’s gotta be Trevor.”

“Why’s it gotta be me?”

“Because if you call me a prostitute I’ll kill you,” she says simply, and you can almost see her shrug.

“I’m not arguing,” he admits, leaning closer to the phone and pressing a quick kiss to Lauren’s temple. “If I’m paying you that means I’m getting laid.”

“Oh, gross,” you hurry, “not right now you’re not. I need to talk to you about the weird entity-”

He cuts you off, rushing through a quick _‘it was good talking to you i’ll see you later byeee’_ before hanging up.

\---

Folding your phone over in your hand, you consider your options.

Not with Ryan disappearing early in the morning, because if you’re honest, you’ve done your fair share of vanishing acts. You aren’t a child, or even a teenager, and you’ve never really been fussed about a silly game of cat and mouse. You’re not about to have your mind run in circles over a man seeing you naked, or see yourself questioning where he’s gone because, frankly, it’s none of your business.

What is your business, however, is whatever the fuck tried to get through your projection charms last night. You’ve run all the numbers, even though you’re terrible at maths, and come to the sound conclusion that every tree that’s been uprooted from the forest, frozen roots curling like agonised fingers and flung against the side of the lodge, couldn’t possibly have made the sounds.

The knocking was too consistent.

Intelligent, that might be a better word.

And besides, a tree wouldn’t leave you struggling for breath. Wouldn’t taint your body with absolute fear, every touch of the walls seeing your charms ripple with strain.

 

No, it’d be pointless to argue that it was anything without a pulse.

 

You do, eventually, decide that asking Ryan about it is the only option. Testing the waters and seeing where you stand, rather than diving straight into the depths of the unknown that you know not everyone is as open to accepting as Lauren, Trevor and Alfredo. Some information is better than nothing, and you make a mental note to strengthen your barriers before another night takes hold.

So instead of demanding where Ryan’s been, or prying an apology for his absence, you shoot him a quick message asking whether he’d like a drink for when you finally manage to step outside and head to work.  His response comes before you can collect your stones from the windowsill, the almost instantaneous exclamation of _‘hot chocolate!!!’_ popping up in the process of crafting another message destined for Jeremy.

You swear at the way it makes your heart flutter.

 

 

\---

 

 

Jon’s just as friendly as ever, chatting with the detective across the counter as Jeremy lounges in the booth he’s claimed. Warmth spills from the cafe’s windows across the street coated in ice and snow, so white that it takes on every colour splashed across it. Every step brings you close to its welcoming arms, the smell of coffee and cakes crunching underfoot like they’re compressed into one glorious scent. But the pair don’t see you, too enraptured in one another’s company, burying laughs in their cups. It’s only once you enter with the swirl of snow - of which has made short work of taking back everything the sun had thawed a day or so earlier - that they break away from each other.

“Y/N!” Jeremy greets eagerly, slipping from the booth in a stumble of limbs and a smile more comfortable than what had graced your home hours before. “Bout time you showed up.”

“It took a while to fight through the snow,” you complain, hugging him close before taking Jon into your arms. “Besides, I asked you here.”

“And here I was thinking Jeremy was here for my glorious company,” sighs Jon into your hair before drawing back, swiping the empty cup the cop had abandoned on the table.

“I’m always here for you,” Jeremy insists, following him to the register, “I swear!”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Jon laments with a fist locked in his tumbles of hair, “you’ve moved on. I can see it.”

“It’s nothing,” Jeremy rejects, looking as though he’d take the man by the collar and shake him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s now working on a second coffee. “She means nothing to me.”

“It’s true,” you confirm. “I’m an inconvenience.”

“An inconvenience!”

Jon glances over, studying Jeremy through fogged glasses before working on the milk. “I can’t take back someone that’s so mean to their friends.”

“God damn it,” he groans, mocking a glare at you.

You shrug, finally letting out the chuckle that’d been mounting since the interaction began. “My bad. I thought he’d go for it.”

Jeremy shakes his head, accepting the cup he’s offered and tossing a few coins back. “Well, I’ve always been a lost cause. Besides, Jon isn’t my type.”

“Ouch,” winces the man behind the register, looking unfazed.

“Don’t worry Jon, no one will be good enough for our dear old Inspector.” Jeremy scowls into your teasing sentiment, but you continue regardless. “Speaking of which, I wanted to ask you if I could swing by the station today and dig into some of those files.”

“Sure,” Jeremy beams, pleased to have your help. Even though you’re unfamiliar with the case, he’s eager to have another set of eyes combing through incase there’s something he’s missed. “I can bring you with me and drop you off home if you want. I’m about to head out.”

“Nah, you go on without me, I can meet you there. I’ve promised Ryan a hot chocolate.”

His face falls, mumbling his goodbyes and excuses to his feet before bolting for the exit. You watch him go, the low sulk of icy blue hair cutting the blinding snow. Out the door with an ill timed jingle and towards his car without a single bounce in his step to be found. Helpless, you attention shifts to Jon, who seems just as put out as you do. He sighs and momentarily buries a hand in his hair, pulling a face before gently removing the reusable takeaway cup from your hands and beginning to work.

“What was all that about?”

Jon doesn’t respond immediately, face squishing while he searches for the words. “Jeremy’s been having a rough time. A lot of stress in his work and personal life.”

You nod as though you understand, and in a way you do, but the fact he hasn’t spoken to you about his troubles stings when you know it shouldn’t. “Would it help if I talk to him?”

This time Jon shakes his head, sharp jerks that stop your offers of comfort in their tracks. Apologetically he smiles, frothing milk with a subtle scream. “I don’t think you being around would help the problem. It might make it worse.”

With a start your expression drops with your stomach, despair and guilt pooling around your ankles like a blanket while your vulnerable body shivers in the cold. Chewing your lip, you watch Jeremy through the window, officer finally lifting his forehead from the steering wheel and sighing with the weight of his shoulders. “It’s because I’m the problem, isn’t it? I was so excited to see him, and he was so eager I just assumed that we could be friends. I didn’t even think about the fact it could bring back bad memories-”

“No no no,” rejects Jon gently, finishing your drink before taking both of your hands in his across the counter. He bounces them, one corner of his lips pulled into a smile. “That’s not it.”

You can’t look at him, glaring at the beautiful cake display while his palms warm your fingers. “Then what’ve I done?”

“It not necessarily you,” he starts, careful with his choice of words. You look up, taking in the sincerity flooding from ocean blue eyes and the subtle quirk of his eyebrows knitting together. “It’s just, well. It’s complicated. Jeremy is interested in Ryan, and you’re kinda getting in the way of his plan.”

You didn’t think it were possible, but your stomach drops even further.

 

 

\---

 

 

You don’t linger at Hay Woodworks, and that’s not because you don’t want to. The smile Ryan had thrown your way when delivering his drink was enough to make the ice encasing the town melt, and the frown that crosses his expression at your quick retreat back into the outside world even harder to deal with.

But it wasn’t these things that made it hard to stay. It’s the fact that every gust of wind rattling against the windows has you jumping when he’s around, has you waiting for the screech that clots your blood and halts your heart. The calm that inhabits his body leaves you uneasy, like the night had been nothing more that part of a routine. A regularly scheduled freight that scares the life back into someone so they can finish the week with vigor.

And it worries you. The empty ache that rattles against you ribs crying out for something in the way of answers, for him to at least acknowledge that the knocking hadn’t been normal. For Ryan to grip the tops of your shoulders and ask if you’re alright. To at least act different; shaken up or on edge. Something. Anything. But you got nothing besides the same smile that always has your heart racing.  

That’s not to say you don’t consider asking about what had happened last night. But the question that clings to your tongue remains trapped behind tight lips and a polite smile, fearful of what the answer may be. The possibility that he’ll confirm your suspicious that the howling and knocking that’d ravished the lodge hadn’t been the wind like you willed it to be.

You can’t deal with it, can’t handle the potential for ridicule for working yourself up over nothing, or idea of him telling you that something stalks through the snow storm. To save your peace of mind you leave with the question, tucking it under your tongue to keep it from spilling down your front.

It’s easier to accept his pretence of not noticing anything out of the ordinary, of not acknowledging that something had been desperate to claw their way into your home. _Easier_ , you repeat firmly, _to ignore it._ Prepare, protect, but pretend that it’s merely precautionary. Pretend that every element making up your being isn’t screaming.

You’re on the path to the station in no time, following the cobblestone and stopping every now and again for the children that bolt out in front of you. You’re recognising them now, the few times you’ve seen them outside of the community garden project giving them enough courage to squeal your name as a hello while they rush about. _Far too much energy for their own good_ , you think, waiting for a girl named Bea and her bouncing tight curls to pass in front of your knees before moving on. _Enough energy that they ought to be able to share._ But you don’t spare it much time, waving the group on and continuing your venture across a dusky Motbury until the worries you have surrounding Ryan fade away with the approach of the police station.

The same greeting you’ve come to expect meets your entrance, a warm gust of artificial heat and a cheery “what the fuck do you want, asshole?” from Michael. He tosses you a grin across the reception, watching you shake off the snow that’s started falling again. You hurl him the middle finger and an equally wide smile, and he beams even brighter. “You here to make a complaint?”

“Complaint?” you ask, perplexed and slightly weary.

He shrugs, still grinning. “Yeah, I imagine Ryan’s getting a little handsy at this point. I can arrest him, if you’d like.”

“On what grounds?”

“Pretty sure he cut down some trees without a permit a few years back,” Michael teases into some files he’s pretending to check, tutting and shaking his head. “He’s a menace to society.”

“The only handcuffs he’ll be in are my own,” you shoot back coyly, leaning against the desk while Michael loses himself in giggles that can only be described as those belonging to a gremlin. “I’m guessing Jeremy’s been talking about us, then?”

Michael nods, punctuating his words with a shrug. “Taking about you? He doesn’t shut the fuck up about it, and it’s not just Jeremy. The whole town practically knows you guys are gonna end up fucking. It’s kinda obvious, especially considering the way he looks at you. Not that it’s our business… unless you wanna share details. In that case, I’m all ears.”

“I’m sure you are,” you chuckle, not at all bothered by small town gossip. “Speak of the devil, where’s that little shit?”

“My little shit of a boss?” he questions, taking the widening of your smile as a confirmation. Calling over his shoulder and into the depths of the offices, you hear scuffling and a muffled yelp after his bellowing. “HEY JEREMY, THAT GIRL’S HERE FOR YOU.”  

“I have a name.”

“I know.”

It only takes a few moments of light, and eventually aggressive, banter between Michael and yourself before Jeremy stumbles into the small reception. You stop instantly, taking in the exhaustion you swear wasn’t there the last time you saw him, hair a mess of sad blue and expression so drained that you’re surprised he isn’t in a shallow grave. And although this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him so invested in his work, you know it’s getting the better of him.

He doesn’t seem to notice the pang of concern shooting through your chest, greeting you warmly and opening the door leading from the waiting rooms into the offices. Michael tosses you a shit eating grin as you pass, mumbling faintly about having a spare pair of handcuffs if you were ever to need them. You ignore him, following Jeremy and trying to keep his sleepy footsteps and slumping shoulders from bothering you. It doesn’t take long to draw to a stop, the gentle click of a door opening and a rush of cold making your hair rise, but no more so than the office itself.

The file room makes you flinch, papers stacked so haphazardly it a miracle they haven't fallen. It's painful to see the disorganisation, the cork board so jam packed that information talks over each other, and the desk drawers lined with evidence bags. And they don't contain much. A splinter of wood here and a woollen mitten there. The space screams with nerves, a tight bundle immediately forming across your shoulders and tugging incessantly at the back of your neck. You don't know we're to start, so overwhelmed that it takes Jeremy's directive hand to steer you towards the first faded brown file.

"This was the first kid that went missing," he says around a sip of cold coffee - of which you're starting to think is straight up energy drink as a substitute for sleep hidden in a takeaway cup. "And over there are all of the complaints made of knocking during the storm." He gestures to another shelf, a little more coherent this time with its coloured tags. "You're welcome here whenever you'd like. I've made sure to give you clearance with your pass. Just tell reception if you don't want bothering. Just, try not to take things home. And that doesn't mean you should live here, either."

You're nodding, drifting towards the desk and sitting. It feels... Odd. That's the best way to describe it. A feeling of routine familiarity that you haven't experienced in a long time. Still, your face doesn't give you away, the smile you offer to Jeremy seeing him return one just as bright. "Thanks J," you say, pulling the file over and opening it, "I appreciate it."

"Hey, if you can help us in anyway, I'll take it. We've got a job to do."


	10. Chapter 10

If you could bang your head into the desk any harder, you would. Honestly, the thought has been crawling through your mind with the early hours of the morning. The only thing stopping you from burying your forehead into the paper that offends you so greatly is the fact that doing so would see Jeremy rocket back into the land of the living. So you refrain from throwing yourself around the room in despair for his benefit, the Detective able to continue slumbering peacefully in a pile of case files. 

It’s been hours. Hours since you’d sat in the chair and started sifting through the mess, and hours since Jeremy had delivered a cup of tea before joining in the efforts. It had also been hours since tea had turned into coffee, and the remaining dregs of evening gave in to the hold of the night. But time hadn’t stopped you, both of you powering through every bit of information Jeremy and Michael - who occasionally visited - could provide before diving into the cases.

And it wasn’t much, honestly.  It’d only solidified what you already knew. That, at first, the town’s people would complain about someone knocking on their doors in the early hours of the morning when the snow picks up and storms set it. And that no one would answer. The progression had seen door knocking become a sign for the death of livestock, or a household pet. Still, none answered the demands to be let inside, and as Michael put it,  _ better the sheep than the farmer's wife _ . Bloody, brutal maulings left in the wake of snow. And then the first child went missing. Then another and another. 

 

 

\---

  
  


Jemma Perkins

Missing 05/02/2016 - Found 07/02/2016

Body, female 8 yo (no. 1), found 700 meters past tree line.   
Footprints entering. None leaving. 

 

Post Note: 

  * Found within vicinity of victim 2 and 4
  * Inexperienced kill but still more efficient than livestock 
    * Skull found fractured in several locations (see. autopsy)
    * Lacerations located on chest and neck
    * Attempts to remove head through incision at base of skull to top mid section of skull. Skin peeled but no further efforts made. 



  
  


SCRIPT

Interview with Jane. L. Perkins (Mother)    
Interviewer: Officer B. Burns   
Supervisor: Det. Insp. J. Dooley

 

06/02/16 - Prior to body recovery

 

Burns: Now Mrs. Perkins-

Perkins: Ms. Perkins, sir… and please, call me Jane.

Burns: Of course, Jane. Now, I know that this is a difficult time for you and the rest of your family, but I’d like you to be as accurate and honest as you can while I’m running through some standard questions. Can you do that? - for the record, Ms. Per- Jane has nodded. 

Perkins: Oh, sorry! I agree to be as accurate and honest as possible.

Burns: Thank you Jane. Do you mind telling me what happened the day of Jemma’s disappearance?

Perkins: From the beginning?

Burns: If you can.

Perkins: This morning was rushed, as always. I woke up at 8 and got the kids out of bed before sorting out some breakfast. Nathan left pretty early to stay at his boyfriend’s, so Jemma and I cleaned up and spent the day together. School’s closed when a storm is blowing in. Safer, I think. We did puzzles and painted. We made dinner together, curled up on the couch, and then I carried her to bed around 7. But when I woke up… I-I couldn’t…

Burns: It’s okay, take your time, would you like a tissue? For the record, Nathan is your..?

Perkins: Eldest son, sorry. Um, I’m just a little- err… Yes, Nathan is my Eldest son. He’s 16.

Burns: Thanks, Jane. According to your initial statement with police outside of these interviews, you were having some work done? 

Perkins: That’s right.

Burns: Do you mind telling me about that? 

Perkins: Of course. The window frames - they’re um, not what they used to be. I was having them reinforced before the storm, just to be on the safer side, you know? It was that nice man from Hay Woodworks in town. He was in an out in no time.

Burns: Do you have a time frame?

Perkins: For Mr. Haywood? Uhh, maybe 2 hours or so. He arrived just after lunch, so maybe 1?

Burns: And did he, or anyone else, come into contact with Jemma, or cause you concern?

Perkins: No! No, not at all. That man’s as polite as polite can be! He was thrilled when Jemma gave him one of the painting’s she’d done that day. Like it was the best gift anyone’s ever given him. 

Burns: I don’t mean to seem accusatory, Jane.

Perkins: Oh. No, I’m sorry. I’m just very… sorry, sorry. It’s all a lot. My poor little girl, I-

Burns: It’s okay. We’re doing all that we can to find her, Jane. We’ve got men scouting every inch of Motbury, and further. We won’t stop until we find her. Please, tell me about anyone else that was around. Did anything out of the ordinary happen?

Perkins: No… well, maybe a little. There was a lot of commotion up the hill that night.

Burns: Up the hill?

Perkins: Y-yes. Up the path and towards the… towards the treeline. Kids, I thought. Harmless teenagers sneaking up there to smoke. I-I know that Nathan does it. He thinks he’s being sneaky, but I can smell it. I just figured… You don’t think she could’ve been picked up by some kids and..?

Burns: Don’t worry, Jane. Please, I know it’s hard, but panicking won’t help Jemma. We need to work together, and keep all of our options open. Would you mind us talking to Nathan?

Perkins: Of course. I mean, of course you can talk to him. He’s distraught, I haven’t seen him so heartbroken, not since his father died. 

Burns: I understand. We can have a councillor ready, if you’d like? Someone for him to relate and feel comfortable with.

Perkins: Please, Officer Burns. Anything,  _ anything  _ to find my daughter.

 

 

\---

 

 

You stare at the information in front of you, taking in the photos you’ve scattered across every piece of desk you have free. 

It’s brutal; far more so than victim number 6. 

The tiny girl is smattered crimson, the fur trim of her coat matted with so much blood that you can’t tell where it stops and her hair starts. Again, nothing makes sense. There’s no progression or logical reason, and all you have to go off is the passionate and excessive measures taken to make sure she’s dead. Your chest tightens with the sight, nerves bundling and muscles tort with panic. It takes all you have not to scratch out the terrible, burning itch that traces the back of your neck, instead trying to concentrate on the scene. Body curled on her side and legs tucked against her chest, it’s almost as though she’s sleeping. Peaceful despite the display. 

This time you let your forehead touch the desk, but only once you carefully lower it down. With stinging eyes and an ice cold cup of coffee making your stomach chur, you consider following jeremy’s lead. Cheek pressed to the image of a dead child, staring at your friend - your  _ partner  _ \- until your lids drift closed with a trembling sigh. 

And in the dark and static hum of lights you can’t help but wonder whether they’d be able to tell you what happened if they had gotten away. Whether their tiny expressions could contort into anything else other than fear, or whether their lips could speak of anything else other than a monster. 

The hand that cups your shoulder doesn’t make sense at first, but you feel no need to bat it away. You’re comfortable beneath its weight, happy with it’s familiarity. It’s only once a thumb rubs you gently back into consciousness that you raise your head groggily, looking around. 

Everything aches, the dryness claiming your mouth sour with coffee, and the strain dancing through your back throbbing with each movement. But the light that slants through the open door behind you is a surprise, those over head having been turned off. The space free from the hum that once infested the ceiling.

“Hey,” comes the tentative whisper, “Michael said you were still here.” 

Finally able to find the source of the sound, you’re face to face with Ryan, a sigh accompanying the creaking click of his kneels while he crouches to you. His expression is kind, concern and exhaustion fighting for dominance over the curve of his smile and carving of the bags beneath his eyes. Looking past him you can see the outline of Michael, officer still holding the door open. 

Clearing your throat is far too loud, and you shoot a worried glance to Jeremy, who doesn’t stir. “What time is it?” 

“Late,” chuckles Ryan, his breath tinting your cheeks pink.

“How late is late?” 

He looks to Michael, who you barely see shrug. “It’s about 3:30,” he hushes back, far more considerate of your drowsiness than you expect. “They passed out around 2, and I called you at 3. Figured you’d be the only one she’ll listen too. God knows neither of them listened when I told them to fuck off hours ago.” 

“Wow,” you groan lightly, sitting up completely in your chair. “It really is late.” 

“C’mon, Y/N,” he murmurs, standing and taking your hand, leading you out of the office once you find your footing. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

“But I’ve got work to do,” you insist, but not very confidently. Instead you’re flinching at the sound of your own voice rasping up your throat once hitting the reception, tones too loud and inconsistent. Lights far too bright, artificial and blinding.

“No you don’t,” he rejects casually, the soft click of Michael closing the door only just registering before the young man joins you. “These guys don’t pay you to do this.”

“And we’re not going to either,” states Michael firmly, earning a sleep smile from you. “We couldn’t afford the over time.”

“In all honesty,” you grumble, shrugging on the coat Ryan directs you into, having collected the garment from the back of your chair along with your gloves and hat. “You don’t pay me either.”

“That’s not my fault,” he reminds, wrapping you snugly in a scarf before standing back and admiring his handy work. “You haven’t returned the forms yet.” 

Your lips part, a gentle and defeated sigh burying in the wool and warming your nose. “Oh fuck, you’re right. It’s on the kitchen table. I’ll bring it into the shop tomorrow.”

“I think you mean today,” he teases, waving goodbye to Michael and easing you into the angry wind, snow swirling excitedly. “And I can pick it up before I leave.”

“Before you leave?”

His eyebrow quirks, and something inside you either drops or warms, or some combination of the two, at the sight. You bury your face in your scarf, thankful that it’s too dark for him to see the blush you’re sure is creeping onto your cheeks. “Do you really think I’m going to let you walk home on your own?”

“Sometimes I forget that you’re a gentleman.” 

Taking the arm he offers, you let him pull you close, bodies pressing together while he leads the journey towards home. 

He laughs, a cascade of chuckles so warm you’re surprised that the snow doesn’t melt. “The most gentlemanly.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you laugh. 

Ryan looks affronted, but the smirk tugging at his lips says otherwise. “Oh really? And what makes you say that?”

“Gentlemen don’t generally fuck on the first date.”

“You do have a good point,” he muses, not at all thrown off by your mention of the previous night. If anything he seems pleased at the turn the conversation has taken, holding you just that little bit closer. The husky drop of his voice does take you off guard though, and you nearly slip on the step you’re attempting to maneuver on to. “But neither do ladies.” 

“I never claimed to be a lady,” you respond, turning on the step to face him, still no way near as tall as he is. His eyes trap your gaze, shifting blues leaving you enraptured as a coy smile peels across your lips. “In fact, I’ve never been one for formalities.”

“You don’t say,” he almost squeaks, breath lost to the moonlight that dusts your skin. He visibly shakes himself, taking the step you stand on. 

“Oh, I do say, Mr. Haywood. And speaking of the unconventional,” you manage in your newfound confidence, swaying with the wind, “we’ve still got some unspoken business. I demand an explanation.”

“What for?” He’s not backing away, instead pressing closer. 

You can’t even feel the cold of the snow. “For whatever tried to take my door down.” 

“I’m sorry Miss Y/N,” he murmurs, lips tugging into a teasing smile. “All I’ve got is a ghost story.”

“Ghost stories are the best way to sweep me off my feet.” You laugh, lost in the colours of his eyes churning in the moonlight.

“Is that all it takes?” He’s close enough to send sparks through your veins, his cheeky grin making your stomach twist joyfully. His hands comes to rest against your waist, thumb rubbing soothing circles against your hips. You move with him, or start too, until you realise the interaction isn’t going the way you expect. Instead he’s lifting you, your laughter musical in the night’s silence as he tosses you onto his back, your arms winding around him. “In that case, I’ll make sure to tell it to you one day, cus this is gonna be quicker. You’re so slow when you’re tired.”

“You didn’t have to come and get me, asshole,” you remind, snuggling into his neck as he begins to walk.  But he’s right, the pace he sets is almost twice as fast as you had been going. 

Beneath you, he shrugs. “Of course I did. Someone has to look after you.” 

“I can look after myself, you know.”

“I know,” he admits quietly, so soft that you can’t quite catch the words in the wind. “But maybe I wanted too.” 


	11. Chapter 11

You’re grumbling as you trudge through the snowbanks, arms crossed tightly and expression morphing into a scowl. Around the side of the building, it’s pristine walls watching you sink to your shins, and spite urging you to keep going. To not give up like the sun has, light fighting a losing battle, and clouds churning with the warning of another storm. Angry darkness and sullen grays bubbling together, a pot of burning soup spilt across the sky. 

It doesn’t seem to bother Ryan. But then again, nothing does. He remains as cheerful as ever, already waiting for you as a blot of red flannel against the blanket of white. A hand pushes back the loose locks of hair desperate to dance with the biting wind, a smile warm against the face you bend to your feet. Left foot, right foot, repeat. 

Only once you reach him and the faded, chipped truck he stands against does Ryan reach out, opening the passenger side door with a click. Even the colours of him seem subdued today, leaching through his feet and swallowed by the hard earth. Golden hair tarnished and eyes filled with slate as opposed to the lakes you generally enjoy. “After you.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble, clambering up and settling on the seat, glaring out the window. Accusing the world for stealing the joy of the day, and selfishly hording the colours you’re desperate for. 

He grins at your attitude, drifting to the truck’s tray. A quick snap of elastic and rattle of chains tells you that the load of wooden panels, planks, and tools are secure; Ryan returning to your side once he’s happy. With the turn of his key he practically bounces, loving the roar that engulfs the space and wraps across the wheel. 

You groan theatrically, head resting against the humming dashboard as he peels carefully out of the Hay Woodworks parking lot. And for once you don’t want to watch the trees go by, don’t want to face the forest that clings to the side of the truck.

“Someone’s grumpy today.” 

His teasing stings, the back of your tongue bitter and eyebrows aching from being drawn so tightly together. You remember the night you’d spent awake, the smell of smudge stick still thick in your nose. A film coating the back of a throat hoarse with incantations. A night left staring out the window, struggling against the pressure weighted against your chest and the rising of a sun that didn’t care. Trying not to tear your skin apart with the burning itch playing at the base of your skull. “You would be too. My sleep cycle sucks right now.”

“I know, I had to peel you off a police desk this morning, remember?” 

You remember. Remember the lightness that shone from every inch of your being as you’d rocked against his back. Remember how the sight of your home had brought with it the lull of sleep. The way the wooden steps underneath your feet had drained away the joy that’d simmered beneath your skin only moments before. The confusion, the fear, and the eagerness to see him gone so you could retreat into your home and carry out your work. 

And the way the morning had crept up on you without any warning, fireplace still empty and tea cold on the side. Jaw set with the incantations calling for protection and strength. Pleading for some semblance of peace. You groan louder, eyes stinging and sore when you try and close them. “I feel like death.” 

“Did you get any sleep at all?” Ryan asks, casting you a sideways glance that you don’t catch, concern bouncing off your back and splattering against the window. 

“Some.” 

“Maybe you’re working yourself too hard?” he offers, sharp turn seeing your temple clatter noisily against the side of the cabin, and you drag your head up. “I mean, you’re doing manual labour everyday with me, and spending nights at the station looking at god knows what. Maybe you need a break?”

“That was the first night I’ve spent at a police station in a while.”

“Something tells me it won’t be the last. What are you even working on?”

“Just offering Jeremy some fresh eyes. Don’t worry, Ry, I’ve been worse. Besides.” You lean back, finally throwing him the first smile of the morning. Your shoulders thaw a little, the knots smoothed out. “You’d be lost without me.”

He returns it eagerly, lips pulling into a lopsided smirk and eyes growing bright. The first sign of true colour for the day. “You do realise I’ve been doing this for years, right? I’ve worked with lumber my whole life.”

“Was it living though, really?”

He pretends to consider this. “I mean, yeah. I’m pretty sure I had a life before you came around.”

You scoff, face tilted to the scenery flashing past out the window. Motbury rushing by. “Doubtful.”

“It was a long time ago,” he responds eventually, pulling into a post lined car park and putting on the hand break. The truck shudders into silence, your legs still buzzing. “So I guess you helped kickstart phase two.” 

“I wonder what your final form will be,” you joke, leaping out and feeling the snow compact beneath your boots. 

“Hopefully one that doesn’t have to put up with you.”

“Ouch.” You recoil, feigning your heartbreak before grinning broadly, the banter in the truck’s cabin having defrosted your icy morning. “You fucking wish. You’re stuck with me. Get used to it.”

“God damn it,” he groans, hiding his smile in the process of jamming on a beanie, hints of gold finally peering around the fabric. A flash of sunlight buried in his suppressed smile. “You better make yourself useful, then. Go let Lindsay know we’re here, I’ll grab the forms and be right up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you call, waving away his instructions and already heading up the stairs, warmth of the tavern glowing against your skin and pooling over your feet. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“I’m your boss!”

“And I’m not listening!”

Your knuckles rap against the door quickly, loud enough to drown out Ryan’s wails of never being able to find good help these days. Or at least, the first few knocks sound with confidence. But they slow once you notice the grooves clawing at the window frames and tracing the door, catching against your skin with sharp nips. Long, wicked channels packed with splinters, fractures of wood peeling with the slices that take chunks out of the side of the tavern. 

A step back reveals more, frenzied as they work across the entrance and scrape across glass. Clinging to the support beams and scampering up the steps. Your follow them, eyes wide and breath quickening. Scampering down the steps and kicking up tufts of solid earth. Frozen grass and sod reclaimed by the snow.

And now that you’re paying attention, you see them everywhere. Littering the homes lining the street and scattered across store fronts. Deep, frantic scratches clawing at door frames and prying at windows. Violent grooves that chip paint and splinter wood, marks that see addresses jotted down in Ryan’s palm sized ‘to do’ book as he comes up beside you with an absent minded smile.

“We’ll have to go into the forest soon,” he notes, tracing a mark with the end of his pen and frowning. “Make sure we’ve got enough supplies. I like to be prepared, what with storm season hitting in a few weeks. You up for it?” 

You don’t respond, too busy trying to swallow the bitter lump that’s formed in your throat. Working through the heaviness that poisons your mind, thoughts sluggish and lips slowly churning silent nonsense into the snow. Heat blooms at the base of your skull, circling your neck and nestling in the hollow of your throat, yawning just beneath the skin. 

Something in your expression has his eyebrows drawing together, hand twitching with the promise of comfort. To ease the tightness of your jaw. “Y/N? Hey, are you alright?”

You manage a nod and what you hope comes across as a smile, tight enough to tear your cheeks and make your eyes water. The uncomfortably numb heat continues to spread, curling across your collar bones and burrowing between your shoulder blades. 

Ryan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t have the time to pry. Muffled yelling from inside the tavern has his head turning, eyes finally releasing you. 

A few clicks and the door shudders open, a bright, rosey woman beaming in the entryway. Hair like fire tumbles to her shoulders, blunt but beautiful. Her smile warms your heart, utter joy at your presence seeing the choking hold of fear and confusion scurry in retreat. Buried in layers of thick fabrics and flowing scarfs, the woman heaves the door open even further, and a gust of heat rushes around your knees. “Ryan! It’s about time you showed up.”

He grins, just as enthusiastic. “Hey Lindsay. I’d like to introduce you to my employee and second in command.” He motions to you, large palm engulfing your shoulder and smile overtaking your features. “This is Y/N.” 

“It’s lovely to meet you.”

 

 

\---

 

 

The ladder wobbles, unsteady with the uneven flooring. You don’t look away from your task as it threatens yet again to fall with another gust of wind, fingers pinching the thin outcropping beams keeping the structure standing. Ryan casts a precautionary glance that you ignore, his worry for your safety becoming more of a hindrance than the rampant weather and Lindsay’s jokes. 

But she’d long since retired with the arrival of Michael, his eyes hooded and voice thick with a yawn. Another late night at the station, and another promise of a warm drink. The morning is trickling into its final hours, clouds still not letting up. 

“Are you nearly done up there, Y/N?” 

You look down at Ryan, the skin of his nose red while pink stretches across his cheeks. “Yeah,” you reply, “Almost. I’ve just got one more section to secure. Would you pass me that?”

 

 

\---

 

 

“Thank fuck you guys are done,” exclaims Lindsay when you finally slip from the ladder, landing with a firm thud on the wooden panels Ryan has reinforced. “Get your butts inside before you fucking freeze.” 

She doesn’t give you time to take in the smooth finish of the stairs, or to admire the new frames on the windows and doors. To drink in the sight of a building untouched by whatever was beginning to torment you. Instead she’s looping her arm through yours and tugging you inside, the warmth of a roaring fire embracing you like an old friend. Ryan’s quick to follow, the heavy click of the door closing shutting out the wailing wind and stray splotches of rain that hasn’t realised it should be snow. 

“She’s been worrying for an hour,” comes a grunt from the bar, Michael spinning his exhausted but surprisingly soft expression on you, something warm and fragrant bubbling in his mug. It’s oddly refreshing seeing him in something other than a police uniform, something you suspect to be close to pajama’s far more comfortable. “I nearly lost it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she laughs, swatting him with the scarf she removes from you. He sniggers, giggles resonating into his cup. “Ignore my worst half,” she continues, moving behind the bar and pulling out some glasses, smiling so brightly that you swear the room gets warmer. “What can I get you? On the house.”

You’re taking a seat beside Michael before even looking to Ryan, the officer scowling halfheartedly at you before shoving your shoulder playfully. “Thanks for fixing my house, fuckface.”

You shove back, and he struggles to keep the contents of his mug from spilling. His grin, however, has no trouble pouring across his lips. “You’re welcome, asshole. Remember, if I put it together I can take it apart.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” His eyes narrow, and your eyebrow cocks. 

Spinning in your seat, your call of  _ ‘boss, get the bloody crowbar’ _ rams into Ryan’s chest, knees clattering against his. He steadies you, hand catching your elbow before you topple into a pile of Michael’s laughter. “Easy there,” he smirks, eyes dancing on the blush decorating your cheeks before he spins you back towards the bar, “how about we don’t destroy things today?” 

You grumble, accepting the tea Lindsay hands you, Ryan receiving a mug with a diet coke can inside. “I guess…”

“Just think of the paperwork,” Michael offers helpfully, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Oh yeah, speaking of paperwork.” Ryan ferrets around in his bag, slipping free an envelope filled with forms. He carefully plucks one from the bunch, sliding it across the bar to Lindsay’s waiting hand. “Here, fill this out. It’s just to-”

“I know what it’s for,” she sighs teasingly, bending to the paper after pestering Michael for a pen. “I’ve done this how many times now?”

“5.”

“Jesus Christ,” laughs Michael, rocking back in his seat slightly before crawling on his elbows towards the paper, scanning the page. “And how many times have you charged us the full amount?”

“I mean-” Ryan squirms, looking anywhere besides Michael’s raised eyebrows and challenging glare. “It’s, what did you call it, Y/N?”

“Mates rates,” you chime, sipping your drink happily, fingertips scalding. “Lauren taught me that phrase.”

“Bloody Aussies,” Ryan laughs, shaking his head.

“She’s Kiwi, but that’s cool.” 

He squints. “Same thing.”

“Don’t you dare let her hear you say that. She will murder you.”

“I’d like to see her try-”

“How dare you-”

“You wanna go, Y/N? Huh?”

“FIGHT ME HAYWOOD-”

“The point is,” interjects Lindsay, scribbling out the amount Ryan had already penned in and adding one much larger, “we’re paying you properly this time. Whether you like it or not. And if you don’t take the cash,” she jams a handful of notes into his shocked expression, her’s smug, “then we’ll give it to you next time the Widow of the Woods decided to pay a visit without a booking.”

You stop drinking, the laughter that errupts licking at your skin and leaving lines of tingling, static confusion. It only ceases once Michael lets out a monumental yawn, eyes watering and body involuntarily stretching. He rubs his face, groaning while Lindsay’s attention snaps immediately to him. 

“Right, young man,” she instructs, “you’re coming with me. You need some fucking sleep.” She starts to shuffle him towards the back door, waving at you and insisting that you stay for as long as you’re comfortable. 

Once they’re gone you turn to Ryan, who offers you a lopsided smile. “I love them.” 

“They really do make everyone that walks through that door feel like family,” he muses softly, motioning for you to follow him on the venture closer to the fire. 

You go without complaint, settling into one of the couches and sighing with the embrace of the cushions. In the amber light he screams autumn; body painted in the golds, oranges and rich, deep reds of turning leaves. “So,” you start, watching the content expression pressed against his features, taking in the comfort wrapped in his smile. “That’s something I don’t know about you.”

“What?” 

“Family.” You sink further in your seat, kicking off your shoes and bringing your socks as close to the hearth as you can, balancing them on the coffee table. “Namely, do you have any?”

He’s quiet, but it’s not a cold silence. Instead it’s apprehensive, draping across your left side and hanging in your hair. When he doesn’t respond you turn, but his eyes remain intent on the flames dancing in front of you. Chewing your bottom lip, an apologetic hand rests atop his, and he lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry, that was kinda rude.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He smiles, a tight tug that looks out of place.

Your eyebrows knit, palm beginning to burn with the comfort you attempt to push through, watching him relax further and further into his seat. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“You didn’t,” he admits, recognising the surprise that flits across your face. This time the smile is genuine, if not a little small. “Sorry, I’ve not talked about my family in a while.”

“We don’t have too,” you rush, retracting your hand only for him to catch you fingers. Instead Ryan follows your lead, kicking off his shoes and resting them atop the table, too. 

“You’re making me sound broken,” he laughs, giving your hand a squeeze. “C’mon, quiz me. I can handle it.” 

“Just… just tell me about them.”

“Then we’ll trade?”

“You want to hear about mine?”

He grins, shuffling in his seat and leaning towards you, getting comfy. “Isn’t that what humans do?”

“Humans?”

“People,” he corrects, laughing at your expression. “I meant people. Stop judging me, it’s been a long morning.”

You consider your options, working over your family history in your head. “I suppose we can trade life stories. As long as I get to hear about the Widow of the Woods, too.”

“I did promise you a ghost story.”

“You did.”

“Well,” he sighs, more exhausted and aching than you’ve ever heard. “I guess you’ll be getting 2 ghost stories for the price of 1.”


	12. Chapter 12

His grip on your hand tightens without realising, gaze caught in the fire. The way the flames dance and log cracks beneath the glowing coals dusted with ash. Ryan doesn’t speak for what feels like an eternity. The seconds drip by and splatter against your nerves with each excited cheer of the blazing hearth. The tea nestled in you lap is cooling, but you can’t bring yourself to drink it. Something odd and unsettling aching your limbs and begging them to be still. 

“I moved to Motbury a few years ago,” Ryan starts, voice soft and tripping in his throat. He doesn’t look at you, but seems to appreciate the slow circles your thumb traces against his. “Figured I’d man my own business and start again. I kinda hoped a different town would make things easier.”

“Easier?”

“Yeah.” He rolls his head to the side, watching your expression. “I was dwelling a lot where I used to live. It’s got… pretty hard. I used to have a house full, and getting used to all those empty rooms was tough. But out here… I’m still on my own, but it’s a lot easier to manage.”

You chew your lip, picking at the skin until you feel it sting. Ryan hadn’t spoken much of his family, but what you did know was that his Dad had meant a lot to him. You try to find your voice. “I’m sorry, losing a parent-”

He rejects your train of thought with a simple shake, lips pressing into a thin line. “It wasn’t just him. I lost my Dad in the Winter of 2014, my wife in Spring 2015, and daughter a few months after.”

The anguish starts first in your fingers, stretching though your palm and along your arm with a cold prickling sensation. With it your muscles seize, desperate to shake free the raw feeling that taints your body and courses through your veins. Infesting your being and stinging just beneath the skin. But you persist, clinging to the mourning that washes over Ryan as he remembers, oblivious to the cry you chew. 

“I’m so sorry.” You struggle to keep from choking on the agony he hasn’t realised he’s sharing, forcing your voice to keep from sounding strangled. “That’s…”

But you can’t put your sadness into words, the feeling of someone else’s emotions burrowing into your bones making breathing hard. Clinging to his hand like it’s a lifeline that keeps you from drifting out on the sorrow he wears in his smile. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” he replies in a tone that sounds wrong, given the circumstances. “But it’s alright. My Dad was old and fragile. He had a fall while we were working around the Grisham forest and steadily declined from there. And my wife was ill when I married her, so we were prepared for the inevitable. Got to say our goodbyes. We were lucky.” 

He senses the question you don’t allow to fall from your lips, letting off a sigh and staring at your joined hands. He traces one of the silver scars cutting across your skin, thumb curving across a cluster that span like stars. Like Ryan prefers getting lost in the blemishes that bloom over your hands as opposed to dwelling in what he knows he can’t escape. 

“I’m now realising that I’m kinda just throwing the ‘I had a wife’ thing on you. Kinda shoulda said something sooner, huh?”

“Don’t be silly,” you mutter. “Am I making this weird? I can let go of your hand?”

“Please don’t.”

You’re quiet for a moment, the nagging of a question becoming too much. “How old was she?”

He knows who you’re asking about, knows by the gentle tone that pools between his fingers that you’re not asking about his wife - and he sighs. “Bethany was 9.”  

Another wave of feeling, tainted with anger and a deep aching pain that resonates in your chest. You don’t speak this time, but you can’t bear to leave him alone. Not with the thoughts that race through his mind and infest yours as a result. And all at once you can see it, drowning in the guilt and agony and self loathing. His fear burning your airways and clogging your nose. 

 

_ The curtains are drawn. The house almost humid with the artificial heat that beats against the walls, clinging to the carpet and sticking across the windows. Ryan closes the door, soft click muffled through the darkness. A sigh sees him shrug out of his coat and kick off his shoes, straining with a relieved groan. He doesn’t notice you, an impression against the memory that haunts him now. A version of himself caught in the loop you’re only managing to glimpse.  _

_ He calls out a name, voice rippling as though the air were water. Every breath you draw never being enough as he yells louder, and waits.  _

_ “Bethany? Sweetheart?” _

 

_ Nothing. _

 

_ You should be leaving. Should be yanking your hand free of his while you sit beside the fireplace, but you can’t. Because if you pull away he’ll be on his own again. Left in the cycle you shouldn’t be seeing, but can’t bear to abandon him too. So you follow him; socks padding across the stairs he takes two at a time, his hand gliding along the banister. There’s panic in his voice now, the name being called infinitely more fragile.  _

_ “Bethany? Don't tell me you're asleep already.”  _

_ Only empty silence greets him on the landing.  _

_ Ryan raps his knuckles against the door, painted a delicate pink and littered with dinosaurs. He’s impatient, you can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyebrows knit. But he’s scared, too. And as his stomach fills with knots and nerves, so too does yours.  _

_ “Bethany?” _

_ You feel sick when he yanks open the door. And this time you call her name, too. “Bethany?”  _

_ He’ll never get a response. He bolts across the small room, taking the bundle of blankets on the bed into his arms and shaking. Her name is falling freely now, littering the sheets like his tears when she doesn't smile into his voice. Burrowing into the carpet with the sound of his wails.  _

_ “No…” It’s your voice this time, bouncing uselessly against his back while he stares at his daughter’s blank expression. “No, please.”  _

_ He glances up as though he’s heard you, face contorted in utter agony. But instead he starts bellowing. Crying out for help, pleading for the babysitter that should have been there. For the neighbours. For his wife.  _

_ With that, you can’t take it anymore. Can’t stand to see him lose himself to a scene you’re sure he’s been trapped in far too many times. And rather than sinking to your knees like his emotions will you too, you take your first step into the room. And then another. Forcing your legs to move until you’re stood above the man who’s lost everything, cradling the world in bloodsoaked hands.  _

_ Reaching out, your fingers brush through his hair, a gentle ‘shh’ falling from your lips. His sobs falter, almost surprised as the energy that makes up your being crouches to his left, arm wrapping around his waist. Your head barely anything against his shoulder. “Shh, baby. It's time to go. _ ”

 

The pressure against your hand comes as a shock, and the sight of his blue eyes free from the clouds of crying anchor you back to the tavern. He smiles, creaking as he leans over to brush  a tear from your cheek, expression confused and soft. “Hey, you alright there?”

You nod, clearing your throat and turning a gentle pink. “Yeah, sorry. Just… thinking.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one crying?” 

You smile, though barely. “Please don’t, cus I’ll bawl my fucking eyes out. And I’m wearing makeup.”

He chuckles, not at all bothered outwardly by the memory that’s seen you close to shattering. “Oh no.”

“It’ll be a bloodbath.” 

“We can’t have that,” he determines firmly, lifting up his arm and motioning. “C’mere.” You don’t hesitate, shuffling into his side and tucking your shoulder beneath his embrace. The weight of his arm is reassuring, pulling you close. “See?” He nudges your foot with his, smirking. “Hugs makes everything better.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, snuggling further into him. Ryan chuckles, warmth of his chest glowing against your cheek. 

“But if I shut up how am I supposed to ask you questions?”

“Questions?”

He nods. “We’re gonna trade life stories.” 

You don’t do a good job of keeping the grimace from your face, picking anxiously at your fingers. “Okay, fire away.”

“You used to work with Jeremy.” 

This statement comes as a shock, and you can’t figure out how best to respond. Instead you glance at him, a swift finger needling between his ribs. “That’s not a question, asshole.”

He smiles, a little more bashful and reserved than before. “Give me some time. Jeremy actually told me an awful lot about his partner back in the city, I just want to make sure I’ve not got anything wrong.”

“He talked about me?” 

“A lot,” Ryan confirms, looking a little wistful. “He was always going on about the ‘best crime fighters to ever hit the streets’.” 

You laugh, defrosting a little. “Of course he fucking did, oh my god. That fuck lives and breathes his work.” 

“So did you.” 

Now you stop, breath stammering across your tongue. Bitter with the apprehension clotting your throat. “You could say that.”

“According to our dear detective, you were the recipient of a number of medals and honourings. Best homicide inspector the area had ever seen.” 

“Is there a question involved in this at all?” Your tone is a little sharper than you intend, body stiffening in his arms. 

Ryan knows he’s hit a sore spot, gentle this time. “Why did you move to Motbury?”

It’s not what you’d expected, gearing yourself up to pour your heart out, bleed your feelings over the memory of a body you’ve never truly let go. A case you couldn’t solve in time. It takes you a while to reply, the crackling of flames accompanying the hollow tone that escapes your lips and coats your interlocked hands. “I couldn’t stand to be in the city anymore. It was to empty.” 

His grip on you tightens. “I thought you lived with your friends? The ones that are moving down?”

“That was… after.”

“After?”

You sigh reluctantly, fidgeting with your fingers. Shifting, Ryan dives into your jumper pocket, plucking out the stones he’s seen you turn over too many times to count, dropping them into the palm of the numb hand you hold out. Once the smooth surfaces touches skin the negativity ebbs, just enough to manage. “Thanks…”

“You’re welcome.”

“So.” Folding the small stones over and over, you can’t bring yourself to share the glance you’re certain he’s casting across your expression. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Wherever you’re comfortable, Y/N. You really don’t have to tell me.”

“No, no it’s okay. When I was younger I actually lived around Grisham forest, too.”

“No kidding!” He’s grinning, like a kid finding out that his best friends loves dinosaurs as much as he does. 

“Yeah, I lived there with my Granddad back when we were on speaking terms. Once I was old enough to get my degree I moved to the city and started working my way up. Trevor and Alfredo lived in my apartment complex, and I met Lauren through mutual friends. Jeremy… Jeremy and I became fast friends. Our desks were next to each other and we had the same drive. Ended up being partners, which was fantastic. Got a few good years in working at the top before everything happened.” 

Ryan doesn’t interrupt, letting you continue at your own pace.

“I always had a problem with getting too invested in my work. Late nights at the office, even later surrounded by files at home. It started bothering the people I lived with, but at that point solving crimes and saving lives was all that mattered to me. To Jeremy and I. Then we got caught up in this really tough situation, and we were certain we’d got the asshole, but… we were too focused. Ended up getting tunnel vision and missing out on key information that was sitting right in front of us. I-” 

You hum in irritation, trying to follow the soft movement of Ryan’s thumb as it rubs circles into your side. 

“I refused to see something so fucking important because I was so desperate to solve the damn case. And it got someone killed. My ignorance and obsession was paid for with someone else’s life. Jeremy and I got the guy in the end, but it shook us up. He got transferred a month after begging the higher ups, and I stayed behind. Couldn’t really face anymore files, and eventually I couldn’t manage being alone. Trevor and Alfredo moved in, and we decided to move away from the city. Start again, just like you I guess.” 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pulling you tighter against his chest and resting his cheek against your head. The gentle rocking is soothing, his free hand cupping your face. “That’s-”

“Life,” you finish, muffled in his plaid shirt, tears threatening to brim over. “That’s life.”

“Why didn’t you go and stay with your Granddad?”

“He died a few years ago and I hated him,” you reply, unfazed. 

“That’s… not the response I expected,” Ryan chuckles, pulling away slightly and peering down at the small smile decorating your lips. 

You shrug, reaching up to brush free the lock of hair that falls into his eyes. “He was a nasty man.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, “bastard was constantly cursing people who rocked up on the property. Missionaries, girl scouts...” You snigger, the pair of you comfortably settling back into a lazy embrace. “Squirrels.” 

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all, he was a real piece of work.”

“What an asshole,” Ryan chuckles. 

“You’re telling me. I’m much happier with the friends I’ve got now. Lucky, too. You know what they love?”

His face clouds. “Errm… food?”

“Ghost stories. But also food. Probably more so food. But I want to hear a ghost story.” 

“The Widow of the Woods?”

“Unless you’ve got more?”

Ryan smiles, rubbing your foot with his. “I’ve got plenty, but we’ll start with the one you won’t shut up about.”

“I’ve asked, what, like twice?” your fingers hook into his ribs, and he yelps out a laugh, squirming into your side. 

“Okay, okay. I give! The Widow of the Woods, I get it. Jeez, you’re a wicked person.” 

“I prefer ‘witchy woman’.” You punctuate the words with a wave of your hand, of which Ryan gabs and forces back down with a playful eyeroll. 

“Of course you do. But I can see it, you’re definitely a fucking witch.”

“If only you knew - wait. Excuse me? Are you insulting-”

“So,” Ryan starts loudly, shuffling up in his seat to cut off your sentence. “The Widow of the Woods.”


	13. Chapter 13

“The Widow of the Woods is Motbury’s favourite ghost story,” Ryan insists, “and it’s more of a legend than anything.” 

“What, so people actually believe in this?”

“You’d be surprised what people believe.” He shrugs. “Now stop fucking talking, do you want me to tell the story or not?” 

You grin, making a show of settling down and getting comfortable. “Continue.”

An eyebrow quirks in response, lips following suit before he clears his throat. “I assume you know who Moira Turner is, right?”

You don’t. “Of course I do.”

Ryan doesn’t buy it. “You have no idea.”

“How dare you - I have… absolutely no idea. Sorry. Who is she?”

“Did you research Motbury at all when you were deciding to move?”

You look positively insulted. “I checked the weather.”

Ryan rolls his eyes so hard you can practically see them strain. “You’re useless.”

“Excuse me!”

He smirks, poking you in the forehead with an eyebrow that threatens your retaliation. “You’re excused.”

Your mouth hangs open, nose crinkled with a snarl. He promptly closes it, a finger beneath your chin tapping your jaw shut with a light pop.

“Right, as I was saying. I guess we’re having a history lesson, too. Crap. I’m a little rusty. So, Motbury was founded a few hundred years ago by a group of travellers. About 27 of them or so. With Moira Turner at the head. She was a woman to be reckoned with, and honestly, she was slightly fucking terrifying. Get caught stealing and she gave you a few minutes to explain why she shouldn’t remove your hands. That kinda stuff.”

You grin. “I like her already.”

“Why am I not surprised? Anyway. With Moira working overtime, she made sure the group was prepared. But something about the snow took them off guard. It was a long, harsh winter. Far longer than they’d anticipated. The resources they’d collected, food, water, clothing, medication - it wasn’t enough. But more than that, it steadily disappeared without being accounted for. And Moira kept a lot of records.”

You ask an obvious question, knowing that if it were that simple Ryan wouldn’t be telling the story. “Animals?”

“Nope. No tracks. It was too systematic, too thought out. Moira kept a journal and complained about the way it would disappear. Small amounts, you know? Almost enough to go unnoticed. Someone in the ranks had to be stealing, but there was no evidence to say who it was. Even with guards being posted by the tents and buildings housing the supplies, something would always be unaccounted for. They had nothing left by the time the seasons changed, and their numbers had dwindled. They’d lost over half of the group to the snow in a desperate bid to find food. Many having either gotten confused on their journey and frozen, or attacked by something and dragged back to die in their medical beds. And those who survived were ill and weak. Cold taking all of their strength. All of their will to live.”

“Oh fuck.”

“Oh fuck is right. But Moira didn’t let the loss of her Husband to the winter get in the way of running what was left of a town.”

“Wait,” you hold up a hand, stopping his words for a moment. “She had a husband? Isn’t this a detail you should have mentioned before?”

“Why?” Ryan asks. “It’s not really important to her character. She got married so people would take her seriously. Most of the decisions she made in regards to their hunters had to be passed through her man, otherwise they weren’t taken seriously. Can I keep going?” 

Your eyes narrow, but you motion for him to continue. 

“Anyway. She did her best to heal the sick and hunt where she could after everything fell apart. She gave up food, ordered the slaughter of animals, and tried to ration out what was left to those who needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. The sick quickly went mad, and those left behind became paranoid. Fights broke out over rations and illness brought hallucinations. She was losing control, and eventually they turned on her.”

“That makes no sense. Why would you turn on the one person that’s trying to help you?” 

Ryan waits for you to interrupt again, but you bite your comment. “Moira was blamed for the misfortune that fell on the group. Accused of hoarding medication so the sick would get worse and the hallucinations of monsters would kill them. Less people, less responsibility. There were theories that she was working with neighbouring camps that could offer her more. Or that she was feeding her son more than the others. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help the ones that were left because they refused to accept it.” 

You pick at your fingers, pulling on the already raw skin running down the sides of your nails. “Was she? Keeping it all for herself, that is? Or working with others?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, or at least she never admitted it in writing.”

“What happened next?”

“Moira disappeared.”

“What?” You sit up straight, glaring. “That’s it? The town turns on her, and she just fucking leaves?”

“She disappeared, Y/N.”

“I- no, I mean… Surely, she’d raid the camp and take what she needed. Pack supplies for her kid and run off.” 

“You’re not listening,” he hums pleasantly, tapping an inconsistent song against your knee. Your brow furrows. “She didn’t collect resources. She didn’t pack a bag or her journal. And she didn’t leave. Moira Turner was there one day, and gone the next. No noise, no tracks. No child.” 

“She just…” you turn the words over in your head, confused. “She just vanished? Poof, off the face of the earth?”

Ryan nods, grinning at the promise of mystery. “That’s just it. She was in the middle of a potential witch hunt. On one side she had people to save and the determination to do so, and on the other, the acts they attributed to her made them see her as too evil to be human. You know what they were like back in the day. She was practically a witch in their minds, and nothing would change that. But then she just... stops existing in the middle of one of the worst snowstorms on record. Even her son was left behind, with no idea what actually happened to his Mom.”

“But what did he  _ think  _ happened to her? Did he think she was a witch, too?”

“A few months after she left her son started waking up to see her wandering through the camp in the dead of night. She’d make her way up to his tent and stand outside for hours, dragging her fingers across the fabric. Just this big, dark figure waiting by the entrance before the weather died down and she’d leave again. But she was always looking for him, and it didn’t matter where her son stayed, or who with. Those of the group who were still well acquainted with sanity would pass him around, and every storm she’d arrive. Stalking the pathways and calling out like the wind for her little boy.  Like she finally realised she’d left him behind.” 

You shudder involuntarily, curling in on yourself. “That’s… kinda creepy.” 

“It gets worse.” 

“How in the absolute fuck can that get worse, Ry? That’s bloody terrifying, and now I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

His smile falls, though only barely. Instead a mysterious smirk takes its place, and you find your hands lost in his. “She never found him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Moira never found her son.”

“I don’t… wait. Hold on. You’re telling me her son never even thought to check? To look at the figure or something?”

“That’s the thing. He was adamant as he got older that the woman waiting outside windows wasn’t Moira. It couldn’t be. Whether it was a witch, a vampire, or a ghost - he realised that if he never opened the door she couldn’t come in. So he started setting up provisions to keep her out, to protect his people from the paranormal wearing, what he thought, was the body of his mother. He barricaded the buildings until they were fortresses, and made sure that no one answered the door when she started knocking.”

Your body runs cold, and he senses the change. Something uncomfortable crawls across your shoulder blades, and you want desperately to shake it free. “Knocking?” 

“And then she started to get angry. How dare the people she’d lived - and potentially died for - shun her out? How dare those that she dedicated her all to keep alive leave her in the snow? Keep her boy away? So it stopped being knocking, and started being frantic, pleading bangs on doors and windows. Screaming to be allowed inside, and clawing her way in before the snow receded and took her, with it.”

“Clawing?” You don’t know if you sound skeptical or scared, but you can’t deny you’re unnerved. Hairs on the back of your neck quaking, skin tight and uncomfortably cold. “So that’s why Lindsay joked that the Widow of the Woods was trying to get in? She thinks those marks we fixed were from a ghost witch vampire demon thing?”

Ryan affirms with a hum, waiting. Like he’s expecting you to recoil. Expecting you to tear your hand away and accuse him of madness. But you don’t. 

“Not an animal, or a murderer, or any other logical explanation? But a ghost story of a pissed off Widow searching for her son?”

His expression scrunches. “I mean, they aren’t animals, really. I’ve never seen a bear, or anything for that matter, do something like this.”

“But, you think that Moira Turner, long dead and gone, is still out there looking?” 

Now his eyes are closed, face folding in awkward pain at how crazy it sounds. “It’s an old story that Motbury likes to tell, Y/N. It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not, cus if people believe it in some form, then it’s a viable explanation. It’s a lot easier for people to believe these stories than imagine that someone’s out there stealing children and leaving their bodies in snow banks. People don’t like to see the evil in people, not really. If it’s a monster, then it’s not as hard to condemn.”

You consider him. Not just Ryan, the warm, kind man you’ve grown so attached too. But you consider a human’s obsession with understanding, their need to find patterns or perform rituals in the hopes that something will make sense. Their love of the paranormal, and absolute fear of someone like you - the content of a scary story brought to life. If he can look you in the eye and show some genuine belief, then you can’t help but wonder just how real it might be. “All stories have some truth.”

“So, do you believe it a little, too?”

“I dunno,” you admit, “I’ve accepted weirder as reality. Witches… spirits…” You make a face, clearing your throat and hoping he doesn’t linger on your words. “But it does make a lot more sense. I guess. In a roundabout way. Ugh.”

“What’s up?” 

“How the fuck am I supposed to protect my house against an angry vampire ghost demon thing that wants my soul?”

“Protect against? I guess just don’t let her in. But be careful,” Ryan laughs, “that sort of thinking sends our dear Inspector crazy.”

“What?”

“It’s one thing to believe a story, and another to insist that it’s true. That it’s the only explanation and get in the way of defending it. There are crack jobs out there that are adamant that the Widow of the Woods has decided to take children until she finds hers. The amount of people that turn up the station spouting nonsense has Jeremy pulling his hair out. He’s arrested more adults in that forest trying to keep her away with weird crap. Breaking into the evidence locker and stealing hair samples in an attempt to cast spells. All sorts.”

“That’s a little intense,” you admit, uncomfortable. “But maybe someone’s trying to mimic the story, and incite some sort of panic to get away with what they’re doing? Has Jeremy looked into it, at all? If he knows the story, he might be able to learn about the killer.”

“I dunno, but it can’t be entirely real, can it? Ghosts and vampires and witches are just scary stories. I believe it, kinda. But that’s only because I don’t have an more information to go off. Jeremy used to come over and tell me all about the case, but now I’m in the dark. He’s so caught up in work he’s terrified of his own shadow. He won’t take me seriously, especially since I told him the same story I just told you. I don’t want him to believe that she’s real, that a ghost is stealing kids, but I want him to consider that there are other options than the ones he’s focusing on. That there’s stuff out there that we don’t know about, human or otherwise. Stuff that’s acting an awful lot like a ghost story.”

His words ring on the biting cold as you and Ryan leave the warmth of the tavern and traipse through the snow to the next job. Bellies full of warmth but shoulders heavy with the cold of his tale. Lindsay waves you off, the snap of the truck door seeing the engine roar to life and Ryan beam while peeling away.

Just the wind, customers will say when you turn up on their doorstep, arms loaded with supplies. Just another restless night in the mountains. But now you’re questioning their crumbling excuses, and fearful of the hollow circles and gaunt expressions that peer through the glass during the morning light until they realise it’s another human asking for entry.


	14. Chapter 14

By the time you’re preparing for the long journey to the airport to collect your lodgemates Trevor and Alfredo, 2 more weeks have already passed.

In the snowy mountains nothing seems affected by time. A world trapped in a white shock of stagnancy. Not that you mind - having rather enjoyed the small pocket of domestic life you’ve found yourself in. The calendar in the kitchen is littered with small blue stars that mark off every storm, every few days seeing another blotch on the corner of a date. There hadn’t been many recently, with everyone in town commenting on the expected silence that comes just before the worst of winter. The world was simply giving Motbury a few days to bunker down before the weather well and truly hits. Sure, snow had fallen, but the wind hadn’t howled.

Still, the date on the calendar stares at you, their names scrawled across the small square. The smile stretching across your face at the thought of having your home filled again follows you out the front door and into the crisp morning, dancing with the sunrays that accompany the well traversed path to Hay Woodworks. The banks smaller than usual and almost free of snow, green grass struggling towards the light.

You’re at the shop every day that Ryan will let you, which is practically whenever you’d like. Each time he greets you with a beam so bright it’s blinding, arms holding you against him in a tight and warm embrace that you never want to leave. Today is no different. He waits for you on the front steps, smile so wide that you can see it as soon as the building comes into view. He’s always there now. Waiting with a cup in one hand and knife in the other, small hunk of wood stable on his knees. A blotch of colour against the crystal white brought in by the occasional heavy night of snow. Every day you wonder just how many plaid shirts he owns. 

“Hey there,” Ryan greets, placing his tools down and standing with a groan, “you look happy this morning.”

“Hey,” you smile into his shoulder, slipping comfortably into his arms. As his hand comes to rest on the small of your back, you suppress the urge to sigh. “Am I not allowed to look happy?”

He laughs, the chuckle an easy rumble against the ear pressed to his chest. His other arm winds around you, the cup coming into view. “No one’s this happy in the morning. It’s suspicious.” 

You don’t respond, eyes locked on the drink. “Is that cup of tea for me?”

“Maybe,” he toys, letting you go and bringing the cup to his lips. “But maybe I made it for me.”

“Nice try, asshole.” You snatch it away before he can take a sip, grinning and hurriedly disappearing into the shop. “You don’t even like tea.” 

“You get back here young lady!”

“No!” 

“Y/N!”

You can't help the giggles, joy tumbling from your lips and threatening to trip you with every object and corner you veer around. Not chancing a look back for fear of falling, you abandon the cup where you can, the heavy foot falls still rushing after you. The back room is in sight, an unspoken safe zone that you power towards with more speed than you've mustered in years. It catches him off guard, but a dark chuckle that sends shivers up your back is all you hear before the ground disappears from beneath you.

With your arms crushed to your side, your struggles do absolutely nothing against Ryan's hold. His laugh is warm beside your ear, tickling hairs and sending shots of electricity across your skin while he carries you the rest of the way. “C'mon Ryan,” you wheeze, “this is cheating!”

“This is being?”

He’s smirking, and you can feel it burning into your back as you wriggle.  Your hands can’t find purchase, and every time you think you’ve broken the hold his arms hug you tighter. “This is you using your glorious lumberjack arms to keep me from running rampant.”

“Glorious?” He turns the word over, wandering towards the back room and shifting through the sawdust. 

“ _ Rampant _ ,” you repeat over the uncomfortable blush making your flirtatious joke a little more honest than you're willing to admit, the smell of wood filling your lungs. “Rampant through the streets!”

He’s not letting it go, tone more nervous than teasing. “Did you just call your boss glorious?”

"Ryan," you huff, ignoring the flip of your stomach as he draws to a stop and still doesn’t put you down, “You're missing the point. You're clearly cheating and withholding me from my true potential.”

“With my lumberjack arms?”

“Yes.”

“That you think are glorious.”

“What? Y-yes? I guess, but that isn’t important.”

The floor is a shock against your soles, so sudden that your knees bend. Ryan’s languishing in your comment, eyes searching your face once you’re able to look up at him. Though his grip loosens, you don’t step away, lost in the blue lakes that trace across your expression. A breathy laugh sees the corner of his lips quirk upward, but only slightly. “That’s a little inappropriate for the workplace,” he murmurs. His hands have moved to your waist, palms radiating a heat that works its way into the pit of your stomach. “Don’t you think?”

You can’t help leaning into him, palms coming to rest lightly against his chest. His heart thumps in your hands. “Oh no,” you breathe, “you’re not going to report me to head office, are you?”

“I am head office,” he reminds around a thick smile, looking down at you through long lashes. He’s getting closer, forehead inches from perching against yours. You take a step forward, having to rise up on your tiptoes to get your bodies flush together. He closes the gap. “But I’m certain we can come to some kind of disciplinary arrangement.” 

“I really hope so,” you manage, hands gliding up his torso and looping behind his neck. “Because I really do love my job.” 

“We’re very lucky to have you on the team.”

“You bet your ass you are.” 

The words barely get past your lips before Ryan’s pressing his against them, soft and warm. You melt instantly, and at the touch of his thumb against your jaw you’re completely smitten. Your fingers wind a little too roughly into his hair, but rather than a yelp you receive a moan that has your skin tingling. His tongue meets yours enthusiastically, deepening the kiss until you’re both breathing around each other, caught in the moment and surrounded in saw dust. 

At first you don’t hear it, but eventually the steady demand of your phone sees you breaking reluctantly away. Smiling apologetically, you quickly slip from his arms, body stinging in the newfound cold as you check the screen. Your stomach drops. Any fire that had been roaring quickly extinguished with the name. Casting a glance back to Ryan, who looks rather unravelled while he busies himself with something,  _ anything _ , to hide the blush adorning his cheeks, you collect your stuff. 

“I’m sorry Rybread, I’ve gotta go.”

“What?” The question is short. Like a pop of surprise as he turns completely to watch you leave. “Are you alright? Did I overstep a boundary-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you call, breaking into a jog and exiting the building before he can ask anything else. “I’ll call you tomorrow!”

  
  


-

  
  


The station is quiet, building mourning and sorrow slipping through the halls. The stairs have never been so difficult. Each step sees your knees beg to lock or buckle. A palm pushes open the door, and Michael’s grim expression greets the knots in your stomach. He isn’t behind the reception this time, instead leaning against the desk with his arms folded. He’s shaken. Eyes lined red and nose a delicate pink. 

You find your voice, but it’s alien in the abandoned cold room. “How long ago did you find the body?”

“A few hours ago,” Michael replies, standing up and coming to stand in front of you. Your feet have rooted themselves to the carpet. He places a careful hand on your shoulder, urging you on. “If that. We haven’t told the family yet. Jeremy wanted to have the coroner check it all out before we went to the parents. And, well…” 

“He wanted me to see her, too.”

“Pretty much.” he sighs, a noisy exhale that rattles across the floor. “C’mon, she’s in the back.” 

  
  


-

 

“We took a while to dig her up.” 

“We’re lucky the snow acted to preserve her,” you reply, looking across the pale, bloated body and toward the man opposite. Jeremy doesn’t meet your gaze, too busy burying himself in his notes. “2 weeks is long enough for a body to degrade past recognition. We’ve really caught a break.” 

“Have we?” His tone is a little sharper than you’re used too, but you don’t rise to the challenge you know isn’t there. Jeremy seems to realise his mistake, mumbling an apology in between excuses of exhaustion. “Just, it’s been a rough day.”

“No worries.” You draw closer, hands clammy in the gloves. “We better get started, then.”

“Yup.” He finally puts his files down, looking to the small girl between you two. His grimace is obvious, as are the pangs of sadness playing through his chest. “Okay. So. This is Laura, the one I came to you about a few weeks ago.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Behind your house. Near… hold on.” He checks the papers on the table. “Found in the same vicinity of victims 1, 2 and 4. She was buried pretty deep under a snow bank. But with the storms subsiding for the moment she was easier to find.”

“Okay, so at least we’ve got a pattern. 7, 1, 2 and 4 have been found in the same place, and 3, 5 and 6 are also grouped together. Weird selection of numbers, but at least it’s something to work with. Number 8 will most likely be found with the second grouping? Looks like the killer is a creature of habit, after all.”

He doesn’t look up. “If there’s a number 8.” 

You don’t acknowledge the comment. “No sign of the skull, I’m guessing?”

“None.” 

“And was she found in the same position as the others? Curled up on her side?” You’re taking the body between your gloved fingers, folding over her hand and peering at her palms. 

“Yeah.” 

“She didn’t put up a fight.” 

This surprises him enough to look at you, eyebrows pulling together. “What makes you say that?”

“Her hands.” You check the other one and it’s as smooth as the first. “There’s no signs of resistance, and nothing under her fingernails.”

“What are these then?” He peers closer, finger tracing shallow grazes adorning her fingers.

You place her hands down, removing a glove and shoving your palm under Jeremy’s watchful eye. “They’re the same as mine. Small grazes from working with material I reckon. Look. Mine are a few days old, too. When the report gets back I’m certain we’ll find that she got them playing with sticks in the backyard. Or...” Your try not to gulp too loudly. “Or at the community garden. I think I remember seeing her there a few times, but I wasn’t around often enough.” You put a fresh glove on. “Besides, fighting against whatever left these gashes would do far more damage than what she’s got.” 

“No, no that makes sense.” Jeremy is pacing, circling his side of the medical table with a pen thoughtfully resting against his chin. “Okay, so let’s run with the idea of her not fighting the attacker.” 

“Do we know what killed her?”

“No,” he replies hollowly, “we can’t tell for sure without the head. Could be blunt force trauma, or it could be some of the wounds across her torso. That doesn’t really seem possible, though. They likely occurred post death, due to the slow blood flow and lack of struggle or tearing.”

Taking in the large gashes lacing her tiny body, you’re surprised she’s still holding together. Against your better judgement, you get closer, examining the wounds as best you can. Though excessive, they don’t appear very deep. Instead they’re long slashes, as though they were made with quick, repetitive movements. Tracing the line of one that resides against her ribcage, the blackened, curled skin remains hard beneath your touch. “What explanation do we have for the burns?” 

“Frost bite,” is his only response. Glancing up, he reluctantly gives in. “Yeah, it doesn’t make sense. The lacerations aren’t swollen, and if it were frostbite the whole area would be black.”

“I see what you mean,” you murmur, voice growing stronger with the next breath. “What did the others die of? The earlier ones, I mean. Didn’t number 1 and 2 have trauma to the skulls, and an attempted removal?” 

“Yeah,” he says quickly, returning to the files and flicking through them. “Yeah, they did. They had lacerations on the back on the head.”

“Help me roll her over.”

“What?” He looks sick, paling with your request.

“You heard me. Come here and help me roll her on to her front.”

“We can just look at the pictures-”

“Jeremy.” Reluctantly he takes up a position, helping you ease her over. It’s not difficult, her weight barely anything, but she’s delicate. Like her skin will peel away as soon as you retract your hands. Once completed he stands back, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “J, are you alright?”

He nods stiffly, jaw setting and hands balling into fists. “Why did we turn her over?”

“I want to check something.” You lean in again, this time getting close enough for the subtle smell of damp rotting and spoiled egg to invade your nose. It doesn’t bother you, not once you find what you’re looking for. “It’s the same method.”

“What are you talking about?” He’s interested now, weak stomach settling with his peaking curiosity. Jeremy peers at where you point, taking in the small dip in the back of the body’s neck. Barely noticeable, it looks like a small tear that extends further than any of the other rips around the severing point.  

“See?” You follow the line with a finger, movement too straight to be an unintentional result. “It looks like the incision point on the first 2. Hand me their files? -  _ Yes! _ Here, look. It’s the same line and it extends to the same area. Do the others have this line, too?”

Jeremy rushes through their case files, locating their photos and lining them up beside the body. “Holy fuck, Y/N,” he practically chokes, a mixture of hope and distress clogging his throat. “You’re right. That means that, if this was the same guy, he’s been killing them the same way every time.”

“Killers don’t stray from their style, simply for comfort and confidence sake,” you respond, smiling despite yourself. “Would it be safe to say that all of the victims could have been killed by blunt force trauma before their skulls were removed? Even if we don’t have some of the skulls?”

“Yes! It explains the incision, and the fact number 7 didn’t fight back. A bludgeon would kill a child instantly with enough force.” 

“Especially from behind like the pictures suggest.” 

You’re both grinning, the macabre situation not putting a damper on your excitement for a new lead. Jeremy’s scribbling on a pad in an instant, grip on the pen turning his knuckles white. 

Shaking yourself free from the moment, a few close up photos are taken on your phone, red lines circling the locations of interest. “Does the lab have any ideas on the murder weapon?” 

At this his face falls, chest deflating. “No, the wounds were too messy, especially with the attempted removal of the skull. It’s shifted too much around. All they can tell is that it's a heavy and relatively wide object. Sharp maybe? Does more bludgeoning damage than anything.”

“Have they tried looking at the livestock?” Jeremy’s eyes go wide at your suggestion, and you can almost see him vibrating. “If we’ve still got some of their skulls around we could match the fracture patterns to specific objects.” 

“You are a fucking genius. If we can figure it out, we might be able to trace the murder weapon! I’ll have to check with evidence, but I’m certain we’ll have some of the sheep skulls lying around, same with the fragments.”

“And once we know what weapon we’re looking for we can find out who has access to it. You know, I have a sneaking suspicion that the victims know who it was so if we focus locally we might have more luck.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Look at how they’re all lying. They weren't arranged like that, the reports tell us that much. What with the blood found at the scenes, and concentration of lacerations on specific sides. They were comfortable enough to curl in the snow with whoever it was that killed them.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Hey, Y/N!” His voice barely catches your attention over the howling wind, your efforts to maneuver the icy path leading from the station and back to the centre of town taking far longer than you’d like to admit. Slipping slowly to a stop, arms crossed over your front and skin so cold it could be mistaken as sandpaper; you turn and search for the voice in the darkness. It’s between the gentle flecks of snow filtering down to reclaim the small splotches of green stolen by the sun that you see him, clad in his usual red checkered flannel and hair desperate to escape the beanie jammed on his head. Ryan waves, jogging easily across the earth that’d seen you nearly topple countless times. “Y/N, wait up!” 

You do, and by the time he stands before you he’s flushed and a little winded. Still, he looks as cheerful as ever, moonlight dusting his skin silver. There’s something different about him, you realise, something far more vulnerable in comparison to how he’d been early in the day. You don’t hesitate returning his smile though, even though yours is tainted with the memory of the tiny body you’d been studying for hours. “Hey, Ry, what’re you doing out so late?”

“Nothing good,” he grins, hand moving to play with the hair curling against the nape of his neck. “I was heading home and saw you. You left pretty quick today so I wanted to make sure you’re alright. Realised I may have overstepped a line today, with boundaries and everything. I should’ve asked.” 

The smile you wear widens, growing genuine. “I’m alright,” you confirm over the subdued chattering of your teeth, hands now buried in your scarf. “Just had to meet up with Detective Inspector Dooley about some stuff.” 

“Stuff?” He’s obviously concerned, eyes clouding and worry creasing his forehead. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry,” you dismiss, “It’s not like that. I… I kinda decided to help out with the Lumberjack of Motbury case. With all of my experience, I couldn’t not help.”

“You never told me you were considering being an officer again.”

“Detective,” you correct, uncertain that you want to have this conversation out in the middle of a brewing snow storm. The sky looks angry. “And you never asked.” 

Ryan nods, sensing your discomfort and doing his best to redirect. “Well, at least the town’s in capable hands... But I’m also really glad I haven’t upset you for earlier.”

“Upset me? How could you have upset me?”

“I kissed you.” 

He looks like he’s kicking himself, heartbroken by the idea, but you laugh brightly and brush away his anxieties. “Are you kidding? After everything? C’mon Ryan, I always have a good time with you. No matter what we’re doing. Kissing, cuddling, or playing with knives.”

“Really?” His expression falls back into the same vulnerability he’d wore only minutes before. Nervousness, you realise, bashful, even. Before you can dive any deeper into what might be bothering him, the words that seem to be causing the trouble blurt out and land in the snow by your feet. “Me too. Well, hanging out with you, that is. I was wondering about that, and, umm, would you like to hang out more?”

Surprised, you can feel yourself blushing a deep pink that traces the tops of your ears. “I’d love too. Wait, you’re not talking about me coming in for five days this week rather than four, right?” 

He laughs, a chuckle that sees the corners of his eyes crinkle and nerves melt. “No, definitely not that. Unless you want too, that is. We’ll have to sort out your roster eventually, but I’m thinking maybe we could add a night to the schedule? Namely tonight?”

You don’t even think about it, grinning broadly and nodding in the direction you’d been going before he’d called your name with such a sweetness you’d warmed instantly. “C’mon then, asshole. We better get going if I’m supposed to drink you under the table and pick up my roommates tomorrow morning.” 

“Yes ma’am!” 

He throws a mock salute and you offer him your arm like a true gentleman. Ryan takes it immediately, looping together and helping one another across the ice. His opposite hand comes to rest on the one you have sandwiched between his body and bicep while you wobble, glance glued to the floor and occasionally flitting to your face in between the easy chatter and infectiously warm laughter. 

 

-

 

The tavern is incredibly cozy, roaring fire embracing you as soon as you step through the large entryway. This time you notice the handiwork, admiring the delicate details you’ve come to recognise as so obviously Ryan’s, and the small additions you attribute to yourself. He’s close behind you, shaking out his limbs and rubbing his hands together. The smells are overwhelming, fetching the lining from your stomach with every whisper of goodness. You barely have time to take in the somewhat familiar room, to comb over the booths and pool tables merging into plush chairs the closer they get to the fireplace, let alone get lost in the hearty decorations - before a slight woman with sheets of long purple hair yells happily to your company from behind a bar packed with bottles. 

“Ryan!” she cheers, shuffling from behind the counter and rushing over, arms wide and welcoming. “What’re you doing here? And is this who I think it is?” 

She turns to you, nose rosy while Ryan wraps an arm around your shoulders, rubbing your arm affectionately. “Meg, meet Y/N. Figured I’d introduce her to the nightlife.”

Meg laughs. “Motbury doesn’t have a nightlife,” she reminds him, offering you a firm hug. “It’s really nice to finally meet you, Y/N. Ryan’s told me all about you. How’re you finding our cold as fuck town?”

You can’t help but feel comfortable, drowsy with the heat of the fire and warmth of your glowing cheeks at the sight of Ryan’s. Still, you begin unfurling your scarf, freeing your neck with relief. “It’s beautiful. I never thought being constantly numb would be this nice.” 

She laughs again, unable to argue. “No one really needs to feel their fingers all the time,” she agrees, “and you’ve found the right man to keep you company. This asshole is alright.” Meg grips Ryan’s shoulder, shaking him while a chorus of laughter sounds from one of the smaller booths off to the side. At the sound she looks over, beaming at the group. “That’s my cue. Those glasses sound empty.” 

“Who’s here?” Ryan queries, peering down the line at more reams of joy and clinks of empty glasses. 

“Couple cops and nobodies,” teases the pleasant woman, moving back towards the bar. “Lindsay’s in the back working on some food - well, potentially burning some food - but she’ll be out eventually. Go ahead and take a seat, I’ll bring out the usual. You want anything, Y/N?” 

“Something warm and spicy.” 

Meg grins, waggling her eyebrows and glancing from you to Ryan, who’s pointedly staring somewhere above your head. “I can tell... I’ll bring it over, should be able to sit down with y’all soon, too.” 

You nod, motioning for Ryan to lead the way - of which he does before a commanding arm stops him in his tracks. He looks at the offending limb, rocking back slightly as it collides with his chest before glancing back to Meg, whose expression is reproachful with the arch of her eyebrow. 

“Nuh uh. Don’t think you’re going anywhere,” she scolds, snatching Ryan’s wrist and tugging him towards the bar. “We’ve got a major group over there, the least you can do is help me carry all this crap. Besides,” she looks to you again, and you pretend not to hear the words she deliberately says loudly. “You’ve got some explaining to do, and some gossip to share.”

“But - but what about Y/N?” 

“She can look after herself. If she can put up with you she’s braver than all of us.” Meg’s eyes roll with her compliment, waving you towards the booth with an encouraging smile. Above all else you can hear Michael, his hearty giggles followed by an open palm slamming against the table. A familiar voice is all you need, expression reassuring in comparison to the one Ryan tosses back. 

“Meg’s right,” you laugh, taking a few step backwards and feeling the jovial energy warm your shoulders, “I was looking after myself long before you came around.”

“But you’re my dat-” 

You aren’t listening to his insistence that it would be rude to leave, chewing your lip as you turn to the group brimming with recognisable faces and a few that hold promise, shaking yourself. A few quick steps and your moving, catching Michael’s eye. He looks much more at ease than he had been when he’d left the station hours before, and hellbent on drinking his weight in beer. The young man grins, face shifting cheekily while he elbows the man beside him in the ribs. Jeremy winces, turning to swat Michael’s hand away, but he instead following the finger pointed in your direction. 

At your tentative wave Jeremy rockets from his place, scampering across Michael and who you recognise as Jon - both complaining vehemently and attempting to protect what’s left of their booze from spilling - until he’s stood in front of you. The redness of his cheeks is matched only by the shine of his smile, tipsy by the way he sways into your hug. He’s drunker in the sound of his voice, drawn out and cooed into your shoulder. “Hey there, Y/N.” He smiles as you hold him out at arms length, not minding at all. “What’re you doin’ here? I thought I kicked you out to get some sleep before you had to pick up Trevor and Alfredo in the morning?” 

“Oh, I remember,” you reply, pushing him back towards his seat as Michael and Jon move to stand, inching their way towards one of the pool tables and offering you roaring hellos, “but I figured that sleep was for the weak.” 

“Are you going to be okay going to pick up them up tomorrow, though?” Jeremy seems concerned, or at least as much as his state allows him to. “ It’s supposed to storm sometime during the night.”

“I should be fine,” you muse, “they managed to get a flight despite all the odds, and besides, the storm isn’t supposed to be too bad until a the next night anyway.”

“In that case!” He sways slightly, hand coming to rest on the table while his other gestures to the face you don’t entirely recognise. “This here is Mr. Gavin Free. He’s an asshole.” 

The blonde with erratic golden hair and a large, protruding nose looks momentarily offended, but realises there’s no point arguing. Instead he smiles at you, apprehensive more so than anything, and wrapped neatly in a thick scooping turtleneck. You return it with as much warmth as you can muster and at he seems more at ease. With a start you realise you recognise him as the quiet soul that works with Geoff during the busier times of the week. Quiet, but always polite. “It’s nice to meet you, Gavin,” you say, “I’m Y/N.” 

“Sorry I haven’t introduced myself yet,” he manages, nervous but grinning. “I’m not very good with new people.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just as awful.”

“So you’re the old friend Jeremy’s been going off about, then? The one that’s gonna save the town?”  

“It would seem so.” You toss a teasing smile over to Jeremy, his hand in his hair and eyes darting from you to the pool table where boistrous laughter booms. With every passing second you can see the alcohol setting in, turning his cheeks ever more pink, his eyes even more glazed. His smile stays the same. “I guess I’ve also gotten into the habit of bumping into him fucking everywhere.”

Gavin frowns, an expression that seems utterly wrong for him. His fingers scratch at the scruff lining his jaw, as equally golden.  “I thought J invited you? He’s been talking about it all damn day.”

This time your whole body turns to face the man who’s now blushing. Fingers work his beard, face scrunching as he realises his mistake. “I knew there was something I was ‘sposed to do today. My bad. I was gonna and then the whole body thing came up, and you had to pick up your lodgemates… Guess one of the lads got there first, huh? Was it Michael?” 

“Actually, I had no idea this was a thing.” Motioning to the room, you encapsulate the gathering in your hands before flicking it away with ease. “But I appreciate being on the invite list.” 

“Then… you’re just drinking alone?” Jeremy seems genuinely puzzled by the concept, concern flashing through his features before he can hide it in a sip of his nonexistent drink. He grimaces into the glass, lukewarm leftovers unappealing. “All by yourself?” 

“Although that’s what alone means,” you tease, pursing your lips with a feigned expression that attests to offence. Gavin giggles, a chorus of squeaks and chirps that sing. “I was lucky enough that at least someone thought to ask me out for a drink.” 

Jabbing him accusingly in the chest he rocks back, further and further until he catches himself last minute with a stumble and heartbroken cry. Your smile mirrors his, offering him a hand and hauling Jeremy back to his feet. “How long am I gonna have to apologise for forgetting to invite you out?”

You don’t even think about it, absolutely certain. “Forever.” 

Jeremy groans. “Well, who am I supposed to thank for dragging you out of your hole then?” 

Glancing over your shoulder, you direct him to the bar where Meg and Ryan juggle drinks, pair chuckling. The smell hits you then, the bowl Ryan arranges on a tray around some mugs sending your stomach into rapturous rumbles. You can’t help watching him. The way his shoulders relax in the warmth and sleeves now back at their comfortable position by his elbows. The way worn, callous hands brush through sandy locks of hair over and over again, a stubborn piece constantly falling out of place. And the way he tosses a smile across the bar at you, a slow curl that sees his cheeks pink and eyes fall to the table. 

“Ryan?” Jeremy’s voice sounds strangled, causing your attention to shift back to him. His face has fallen, incredibly sobre despite the way he sways. The colour has drained, skin no longer a warm alcoholic pink and instead a greening pale. Ashen like chalk. Instantly you’re concerned, worry rushing through your veins and burrowing into your stomach. Even though the roaring fire dances happily in the hearth, it takes all you have not to shiver. He speaks again, icy over the calls of Michael and Jon, of which he doesn’t seem to hear. “You came here with Ryan?”

And then you remember what Jon had said, cursing yourself for forgetting.

Apprehensive, your eyes dart to the two men wandering over from the pool table with thick smiles, cheering while Meg juggles an impossible number of drinks and plates of food. Gavin scampers out of the booth, his arm winding around Meg’s waist despite her half hearted protests, pressing an affection and loud kiss to her cheek. Before you can say anything in the way of an apology, an elbow nudges your shoulder gently, and Jeremy shakes his expression free. He’s gone moments later. snatching Michael’s arm and hauling him away, the young man protesting that he wants to say goodnight to his wife if she ever resurfaces. You watch in confusion, hurt and hollow, until you hear his comforting voice.

“Hey there,” Ryan murmurs, offering you a balmy smile and an impossibly large mug of steaming sweetness similar to apple pie. “I hope you like cider. And chips, I got us chips. It’s got cheese on it, and this weird thing called dukka that’s actually really good.” You practically melt, beaming as the liquid warms your throat with hints of cinnamon and the sting of apple. Around your thanks he watches Jeremy with the same expression you assume you were wearing only moments before, and it makes your stomach flip uncomfortably. “What’s his problem?”

“I dunno,” you start, staring at the empty doorway. “He saw that I was here with you, and then he left…”

Ryan makes a noise as though it all makes sense. But the smell of cider and warmth of his body beside yours gives you confidence. “What happened between you guys?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. He just started acting weird. I thought it was the Widow of the Woods talk but now I’m not so sure.”

 

You chew your lip, taking a large sip of your drink. “I hope it works out…” If he’s noticing a shift, then perhaps something truly is wrong. Still, all worry ebbs when his eyes return to yours. 

 

“I hope so, too. Oh, I also had Lindsay put some crumble on. It should be good in half an hour or so.” 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty goodness. I'd apologise... but I won't.

“Get out of my damn house.”

“But Meg, you don’t live here!”

“Well I do,” asserts Lindsay around a smile and warm laugh, batting his hands away from the plates he’s trying to collect while you wrap yourself in your scarf.  “So don’t make me ban you, Ryan.”

Meg stares him down and he backs away. “C’mon, lovebirds. Get outta here. We close at 11, and that was an hour ago.” 

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, taking Lindsay into your arms for a quick, wobbly hug before heading towards the exit. Meg catches you and pulls in another, giving you a gentle push. “It was lovely to meet you,” you gush, thrilled by their company, “I can’t believe you put up with Michael and Gavin.”

“It’s a hard life,” affirms Meg around a grin.

“Trust me,” Lindsay laughs, snatching at Ryan while he tries to clean up yet again, dragging him after you, “Michael puts up with me. Just like you put up with this asshole.”

“He really is an asshole.” 

“Hey!” Ryan breaks free of the tavern owners grip, rushing in front of you. There is a dopey smile on his face as he holds open the door Lindsay is practically forcing you two through. “At least let this asshole walk you home.”

Your grin is just as wide as his, shivering into his side while an arm winds around your waist. “Oh, like you have a choice.”

The tavern’s warm glow disappears as you wander through Motbury, snow clinging to your hair and biting at your nose in the dead of night. It dances with the pounding of your heart, irregular and excitable - but you don’t care. The cold comes as a pleasant means to cool the fire coursing through your veins and burning beneath every inch of skin he touches.  

Ryan laughs, cheeks rosy and threatening to split as he bids goodbye to Lindsay and Meg, who look a lot less murderous now you’re on your way home. His voice is low when it brushes against your ear, hot against your neck. “No choice, huh?”

“It’s what gentlemen do,” you reply coyly, head resting against his shoulder and peering up to greet dazzling blue eyes hooded with heavy lids. Though you’re lost in the haze of drowsiness, good food and even better company, you’re hyper aware of the softness of his lips pressing into your hair. 

“But that’s the thing,” he murmurs, steps slowing and spare hand curling fingers across your jawline until you’re caught in his gaze. “We’ve already established I’m not a gentleman.” 

“Thank god,” you breathe, pulling him even closer with a fist full of his shirt, “because I’m no lady.”

“You’re a wicked witch,” he chuckles, hand lacing in your hair.

“I’ll show you wicked.”

“Oh god, please do.”

  
  


-

  
  


Your back slams into the wall before your front door even has time to close. Dizzy with the motion, elbows finding the narrow shelves. He’s quick to press himself against you, one hand moving to grip your waist while the other works roughly into your hair. Ryan's mouth is on yours almost immediately, a bruising kiss that leaves you desperate and gasping. Tongues exploring furverantly while fingers claw each other closer.  

Roaming hands traces trail of fire across your body, skin burning for more. Every scrape of his nails across the exposed skin lining your waist seeing the deep aching between your legs grow, hips rocking against anything you can find of him. Desperate is the word you’d use if you could form anything coherent through the intoxication of Ryan. His mouth hot and demanding. Hands dominant and in complete control. Only once you break away do his lips find you neck, open kisses working from your jaw to collar bone while you shed your coat in a clumsy haste. 

Urgent fingers tug the hem of his shirt up, removing it swiftly in between the rough kisses he dots across your skin. Teeth graze the side of your throat, migrating to your jaw. Fingers curling across your cheek adoringly. You bring his face back to yours with a hand knotted in his hair, palm resting on his blazing chest. His heart is desperate in its pounding. Ryan’s eagerness is exhilarating, and a moan drawn from the back of his throat when you take his bottom lip between your teeth has you shivering. 

His hand snakes under your shirt without hesitation. Goosebumps riddle your body as he cups your breast with a cold hand, and an involuntary sigh accompanies the teasing circles of his thumb. Ryan grins against your mouth, knee nudging your legs apart so he has a more comfortable place to rest. But it isn’t enough, and you make sure you leave marks when dragging your nails along his shoulders. He makes quick work of your bra around a shudder, removing it along with your jumper before returning for another demanding kiss. 

“Bedroom?” 

The words are a moan against your lips, and you nod in return. Before you can respond any further you’re gasping, his mouth is leaving yours and instead dusting downward. Catching on your collar bone, while his fingers massage the flesh he clings too. Then his tongue darts out, eyes locked on your expression as he places a few well timed twirls against your nipple. It’s hard to keep standing, knees weak with another whimper of pleasure. 

“Upstairs,” you moan, fingers winding in his hair and holding him in place. The gentle pressure of his lips clamping around you drives you mad. Soft motions of his tongue ache, steady tweeks from his free hand on your other breast hard to handle. If he weren’t supporting you you’re certain you’d be a mess on the floor - which isn’t something either of you would oppose. “Third door on the right. You remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” he chuckles, releasing your nipple with a muffled pop. Returning to you, the kiss is a little less frantic. A little more drawn out and ladelled with longing. He doesn’t waste any time, strong arms lifting you with ease. A hand supporting you’re ass and another pressed to your back. Elbow keeping you in place. Your legs wrap round him instantly, arms locking around his neck as he pads through the house like he belongs. Taking the stairs before you can take back his lips. Somehow you manage to kick off your shoes, abandoning them on the catwalk balcony before he uses your back to push open the bedroom door.

The bed springs give as he drops you, body bouncing while he kicks off his shoes and strips his jeans. Then he’s covering you, eyes roaming your expression doused in moonlight while he leans on an elbow. Lopsided smile so beautiful you want to cry. Trapped between his arms and adoring gazem your hand runs over his bicep, bottom lip drawn between your teeth with the feeling of his erection against your thigh. At the sight he cusses, eyes growing heavy and smile shifting to a smirk. “God, I love it when you do that.”

“Really?” you tease, one leg hooking around his hip. “And what about when I do this?”

A swift heave has him beneath you, your hands on his chest and the fire in your belly pressed against his cock. But he doesn’t stay taken aback for long, gripping your hips and thrusting up while his head rocks back into the pillows, eyes closed. “Oh, that’s definitely a favourite.” 

“Yeah?” You rub against him. A long, drawn out moment that has Ryan swearing. Repeating the action, every movement has his grip tightening, nails digging into skin. He drags his eyes open, dark with lust and shining in the moonlight filtering through the window. His hand cups your breast, another enjoyable gasp worming from his lips to greet another grind. But this time you keep going, continuing along his thighs and gripping the hem of his underwear. “I know for sure you like this.”

Ryan sits up, claiming your mouth eagerly while he snatches your hands away and holds them above your head. Not fast enough to stop you shifting the fabric down to his knees, but in time to catch your movements before you get your way. You don’t have time to react, gasping as your knuckles hit the headboard while he flips you onto your back again. His eyes darken, confident and in control. “How about you let me look after you this time?” 

You can’t reply, fists buried in the pillows as his free hand snakes across your stomach. You barely register the soft pop of your jeans or tugging of the zipper, caught in his gaze. But then his hand slips into your pants, blatantly ignoring your underwear. The cold almost makes you yelp, but instead it comes out as a trembling whimper. Your body arches. Begging for him. With the gentle finger Ryan glides through your wet folds you can’t hold back the moan, cheek turning so you can plant a kiss against his wrist. It earns you a deep chuckle and hooked finger that makes you buck involuntarily, his name escaping with the movements he works inside of you. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasp against his wrist when he incorporates another finger, palm brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves as he dots kisses along your chest. “That feels amazing.”

“I can guarantee I know something better.”

“Don’t tease me-” 

You don’t finish your sentence. Ryan releases your hands and moves, removing his fingers and replace them with slow, soft lips. Pleasure rockets through you as his tongue strokes lazy circles, body aching and centre roaring to life. All the while his eyes remain intent on your expression. Captivated by the moans tumbling onto the bed sheets. It’s not long before your hands knot in his hair, hips rocking against him while he’s locked in place. He works faster, lips firm around your clit and fingers returning. Quick as they move, brushing the spot that sends you wild. You whimper out a cuss again, almost begging for the pleasure to continue. For Ryan to never let you go. 

“Look at me, baby.” 

You do, but it takes more effort than you’re willing to admit. Dragging your eyes from the ceiling like it’s the hardest thing in the world. But then you’re watch him drink you greedily, the blue depths that shine so brightly that they glow making it all worth it. Soon you can’t hold in his name, letting it tumble from your lips in frantic pleas for him not to stop while the heat inside your belly spreads until it’s nearly uncontainable. 

But he does stop - though it’s only for a moment. Not long enough for you to notice, breaking away before sliding into you with a grunt. Filling you completely. That’s all it takes for you to come undone, a few deep, lengthy thrusts leaving you breathless. Body shaking with the pressure of your release, trembles of waves crash down. But you don’t have time to bask in the euphoria, claiming his lips roughly with a fist full of hair. Ryan’s arms wind around you, cradling you as he rolls onto his back. 

On top of him you don’t need any prompting. And as he stares up at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, it takes some convincing to break away from his gaze. Planting your hands and steadying your supports, you begin to move. So slow and so deliberate that he’s cursing, whispers lost in the pillows. Cheek pressed into the fabric like he hopes it’ll turn into your caress. His grip tightens against your thighs and you moan with the sensation rubbing against your clit as he starts pounding into you. Deep and demanding. 

Like there will never be enough of you. Like it’ll always be perfect. 

You don’t argue, feeling another wall of pleasure building with every touch, every thrust, and every clumsy kiss. Resting your forehead against his, you let Ryan take over, his arms wrapping around your waist as drives into you. You’re vaguely able to make out your name. His lips are buried in the crook of your neck, thrusts growing sporadic. Coaxing him to look at you, you bite your lip and he all but weeps your name.

“You gonna come for me, Ryan?” 

He shudders, pressing his lips to yours greedily as he moans with the waves of utter bliss taking over his movements. Nodding and thrusting until he’s spent and you’re trembling. Pressed against his chest, legs tangled and hot breath clinging to his skin. His gentle chuckles lost in your hair. 

You slip away. Collapsing beside him on the mattress and trying to catch your breath. Neither of you speak at first, lulled with the sounds of pounding hearts and heaving chests. But as the noises of the night takes over, with the soft hum of the wind and gentle creaks of the house settling, you know something has to be said. 

“Hey,” you manage, hand searching for some semblance of him. “Ryan?”

“Yeah?” He rolls onto his side, palm coming to rest on the small of your back. 

Turning to face him, you’re lost for a moment in the way his body dances in the moonlight and the stars caught in his eyes. Reaching up and brushing back the lock of hair that never seems to want to stay in place, you offer him a sweet, comfortable smile. Heart singing like a teenager in love. “Will you stay this time?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” His face splits into possibly the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. Collecting the blankets and positioning them around your bodies, he settles in. Secured in his arms, your cheek presses against his chest, falling into an easy sleep with the sound of his heart. “Goodnight, dear.”

 

-

 

**Y/N:** I fucked him again.

**Y/N:** I FUCKED HIM AGAIN.

**Y/N:** LIKE A FOOL. A FANCY FUCKING FOOL.

**Y/N:** LAUREN HE’S IN BED NEXT TO ME.

**Y/N:** NAKED.

**Lauren:** OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.

**Lauren:** it’s 2 in the fucking morning go the fuck to bed.

**Lauren:** BUT ALSO SEND ME DETAILS.

**Y/N:** He’s naked Lauren. Naked. In my bed. A sexy Lumberjack man is in my bed and I THINK I HAVE MORE THAN JUST A CRUSH ON HIM. Oh my god, andd 

**Y/N:** HE’S AWAKE. FUCK.

**Lauren:** Yeet your phone out the window.

**Lauren:** Then yeet yourself out the same window.

**Lauren:** Pretend to be asleep.

**Lauren:** No wait. FUCK HIM AGAIN.


	17. Chapter 17

You thrust a hand out from the blankets, smashing every inch of your side table until the noise stops. The crunch of buttons is harsh beneath your palm, but at least the blaring of the alarm stops. But It’s too late. The cold has already set in now that you’ve tried to return to the warm blankets. A monumental groan sounds into the pillow, a slight headache throbbing across your temple.

“What’s that ungodly noise?” complains Ryan, husky in your ear and he curls into a tight ball. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, urging sleep to take him before waking does. You start to move, gentle when easing yourself away, but he grips you tighter. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

“To pick up some assholes from the airport,” you murmur in response, hand coming to rest on his cheek. “Unless you want to go and get them instead?”

He pushes you away instantly, flopping onto his back and starfishing. “Hell no, have fun though. Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

“Really?”

He opens his eyes to the sound of something you hadn’t intended to come across as hope, watching you slip from the bed and perch on the mattress. Catching your hand, he gives it a squeeze, forcing you to look at him. “Really.” 

“You’re not gonna vanish?”

He chuckles, gentle and reassuring in the dark. “Not unless you want me too.”

“Depends on whether or not you wanna meet my friends in yesterday’s clothes.”

“Ah.” He exhales, pulling you down for a lingering, sweet kiss, “maybe I’ll go home and change before coming back? I don’t want to make a bad impression.”

“Just don’t get taken by the Widow of the Woods, okay? I’m not done with you yet.”

“I don’t know if that’s a threat or a promise, but I’m completely okay with either.”

 

-

 

Another bubble escapes from the back seat, the two men grinning at each other through roaring laughter. Lauren scowls, fingers tightening on the phone she passes over in her hands. Your grip on the wheel doesn’t waver, and neither does the silly smile on your face, holding on for dear life as Trevor - all long strong limbs and big grins, hair just as perfect as always and dark eyes shining - holds up a cautionary hand.

“I give that a 7.5, Mr. Sauce.”

Alfredo’s eyebrows meet, appalled at the low score and offended that his friend would be so unimpressed by his drunken belch. But the expression makes you smile, the soft face looking wrong with such a feeling of offence. Full lips purse with the narrowing of wide eyes, dark toffee depths critical while he points and accusatory finger. “Only 7.5? That was at least a 9!”

Trevor shakes his head as Lauren hunches further in her seat, exhausted from spending hours on a plane trying to wrangle 2 drunks. Bags lining her face but lips still curving into a plump smile behind her scarf.

But the bickering doesn’t bother you, the company making you feel so light you’re surprised you aren’t floating. The sound of Lauren screaming  _ ‘surprise bitch!’ _ across the airport still ringing in your ears. Tears brimming as she’d tossed her bags at Trevor and bolted to you. Beautifully blonde with waves of hair that cuts off as blunt as her bangs, blue eyes that pierce your soul and hands scarred with subtle golds snatching your elbows. Bundles of jumpers enough to cacoon her in the sunshine she’s left behind for you, arms bringing with the embrace the warm weather of a choking beachside town. And as you’d held her out at arms length the small woman practically shone. A friend it had taken you too long to find, and a sister you can’t even fathom living without. 

Scanning the gentle rolls the fog has started to form beneath the steady and thick snow fall, the early morning light swallows the car in the same nothingness scattered across the dead streets. You shuffle in your seat, trying to concentrate as you maneuver across the ice. “Trevor’s right, Fredo, it wasn’t that good.”

You regrets speaking almost immediately, met with Alfredo’s vehement protests as they hit the back of you seat and curl around your shoulders. “You’re just grumpy cus you’re not drunk.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” groans Lauren, hurling a glare back at her friends. 

“I was drunk last night,” you interject conversationally, peering through the thick blanket smothering the car and searching for something that resembles the road. “Well, buzzed at least.”

“You were  _ drunk _ ?” slurs Trevor over Alfredo’s theatrical gasp, “Do you hear that, Fredo? The lady was drunk!”

“I heard it, Trey,” laments Alfredo, shaking his head in shame, “with my own two ears.”

“As opposed to someone else’s?” asks Lauren, defrosting in the warmth, letting go of her lack of sleep. Her beam brightens the space, Trevor practically melting into it.

“Maybe you’re the one that’s grumpy,” he accuses playfully, eyes narrowing at Lauren and the sunshine radiating from her smile. 

“Maybe that’s your fault.”

“C’mon baby,” pleads Trevor, managing to sit on his knees around his seatbelt and grip her headrest, chin on Lauren’s shoulder. “Everything was free, you can’t expect me to avoid such a financially beneficial deal.”

“I didn’t expect anything,” she laughs, fingers tracing his rosy cheek and eyes drifting to you with mischief. “But I was hopeful.”

“Ooo, you hear that, man?” Whistles Alfredo, joining Trevor in his knees, head peering between the seats and brushing your arm. “She was hopin’ you wouldn’t be you.”

“I did hear that!”

“That’s not what I said-” 

Trevor's hand clumsily stops her words, his eyes closing and eyebrows knitting together, as though he can’t quite remember how to open them.  “I’m sorry, Lauren. Laurie. Lol. Ren. Ren Ren… Where was I going with this?”

He blinks when her gentle slap shakes him out of his daze. She laughs again and you join in. “You were saying how much you love me.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.” 

“Okay, this is getting weirdly intimate,” complains Alfredo, scurrying away from the doey gazes the pair share, shielding behind your chair. “I’m too drunk for this.”

“At least you’ll sleep well,” you offer, smiling into the mirror in the hopes that he’ll catch the expression. He does, returning his own.  “Besides,” you insist, “I’ve missed you guys too much to care. But if you throw up in my car you’re walking. Now, everyone shut the fuck up. I can’t see dick.”

You try to ignore the subsequent jokes that pelt against your back, focusing on the world in front of you that holds little to be distinguished. Squinting, you can no longer see the usual houses crammed together in clumsy lines down the streets as you venture towards the center of Motbury. Nor the trees with their dark green leaves that shift in the dark like monstrous creatures.

“Where are we?”

You don’t have an answer for Alfredo, sharing his concern as still no signs illuminate in your car lights. Through the cracked open window whispers the unusual smell of rot - out of place in the snowy district you swear you should be close too. With it wafts something more, a tangy smell of something that festers and stings, leaving a bitter film that coats your airways and settles at the back of the groups throats. The snow picks up. Swirling with the aggressive wind that engulfs the car. White masking your vision and blinding in the headlights. No amount effort helps you break through the sudden storm that’s raging far earlier than it’s supposed to, car pulling to a reluctant stop.

Lauren shudders at your side, abandoning her phone in favour of clinging to the dashboard. “Is that you?”

“Me?” you ask, astonished and wide eyed. “It what me?”

“The storm.” She waves a hand to the turmoil outside. “All this shit.”

“Why the fuck would this be me?”

“I don’t know, you’re all about snow!”

“What,” you snap nervously, “you think I can just make it snow on command?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” she half warns, clearly uneasy in the enclosed space. “You used to make it snow on our desks in class, Y/N.”

“A desk is much smaller than a whole town-”

“I don’t care, but if this is you please stop-” 

Her scream cuts her off, the car shuddering violently beneath a high pitched tearing suddenly taking over the space. Like nails across a chalkboard. Something sharp caught against glass. The sound traces the left side doors, lingering beside the boot. Alfredo sobers up quickly, pressing into the middle of the back seat with Trevor at his side. Both stare out opposite windows, squinting through the flurry of snow that’s quickly taking over the road. The outside world is swallowed whole, nothing but the static of a VHS tape glaring back. 

Alfredo gulps, working around the fear clogging his throat. “What the fuck was that?”

Only breathing fills the void, ragged and forced into silence. Before you can respond another bang claps through the storm - but this time it’s different. This time the shriek that follows is so familiar that it makes the hair on your neck rise, base of your skull itching with the burn. It echoes through the nothingness, shrill and layered and agonising just as it had the night you’d experienced your first snowstorm.

A pressure so tight that you can’t draw a big enough inhale to stop feeling dizzy takes over, shooting through your limbs and dancing across your shoulders. Trickling down your back and burrowing into your spine. Without thinking you’re snatching Lauren’s hand, grip so tight that her palm gives beneath your nails. But she doesn’t draw away, instead clinging just as tightly and staring out the window. Every element in your body screams. Wailing beneath the stress and tension and hollow loss that infests your being. 

“Help us,” you murmur into the early morning, pleading with the faint growth of colours splashing across the sky and begging the stars that shine down. Urging the moon to intervene or for the snow to part and lead you home. For someone,  _ anyone _ , to hear you. “Help us, please.” 

You don’t know what prompts you to move, but you’re lurching from the car and into the cold like you’ve been stung. Releasing Lauren’s hand without warning, blood rushing back to your white and strained knuckles. Gasping and breathing in the icy air amidst the groups insistence that you stay inside. But you aren’t listening to their cries, too busy hearing the wail of the wind and whistle of snow. Searching for the hollow cries that dance between the storm, the sounds of tearing metal cutting through the comfort you once found in nature. 

When it comes you’re ready, the howl distant at first. But as it drones on it gets closer. Your throat closes and airways block with the scream you’re desperate to release, but refuse to allow. Snow swirls around your defiance, twisting gracefully around your being and refusing to touch your skin. And with it anger flares, unyielding and confident despite the fear that bubbles in the neverending pit of your stomach. A step forward feel like 10. Limbs shaking and knees threatening to buckle. But you don’t give in. Another step putting you further into the banks and deeper into the trees you haven’t expected to be so close to. 

It’s through the dark that you see it. The black mass throbbing between the bark and branches, lost in the moss and shrouded in the storm. Towering impossibly over the tree trunks with eyes that blare like torches. Despite the snow, nothing clings to it’s fur. Flickering in the nothingness, it bellows. Caught beneath the claws digging into it’s perch.

And it sees you, too. 

Turning slowly, it’s form waves in the wind that roars between your fingers, batting through your hair. You don’t give it the opportunity to reposition, hand raising and palm thrust forward without a second thought. And, though fear roots you in place, your voice remains steady over it’s growls. Confusion forced down in favour of actions you can’t quite place. “You are not welcome here.” 

It doesn’t move, stuck momentarily in its surprise. And you say it again as soon as you see it consider approaching. More forceful, words white hot against your tongue. Like your cheeks should blister or mouth burst. “You are not welcome here!”

A flash of light rushes from your hand, burning cold and so bright it’s blinding. Almost liquid as it rushes towards the shadow curled between the trees. It wails, a sound lost to the wind and bellow of the storm. Buried beneath the cry of pain that trembles through your elbow. Recoiling, you stare at your trembling hand, old scars glowing a gentle, faint and silvered blue. Your palm shimmers, wrist locked in curling colour and fingers laced with carpenter cuts and a witch’s payment. 

“What the fuck are you?” You don’t know what you’re talking to, still trapped in the light that dims into dormancy, skin left to simmer. And with it dies the storm, wind settling and snow slowing to a trickle. A few stray bursts dress your hair and wet your parted lips. “What the absolute fuck are you?”

“That’s a little rude, I should arrest you for that.”

“What?” You stumble at the response, whirling back towards the car. Inside it Alfredo and Trevor stare, shaken and locked on your hand. Lauren scampers from the vehicle, struggling with the door and slipping through the snow. 

But it’s not them you’re paying attention too, instead focusing on the figure working its way through the snow. The smudge forms a person as it gets closer, Jeremy shielding his face from the weather and glow of headlights as Lauren launches to your side. “What are you doing here?” 

“I got your phone call,” Jeremy says, perplexed and pulling up to you and your friend, her hand clamped on yours. “You called for help, and good thing, too. There’s been a recent bear sighting around here. C’mon, let’s get you home. You’re only about 10 minutes out. The patrol car should be able to get you out of the bank.”


	18. Chapter 18

“What the absolute fuck was that?!” 

“I don’t know,” you admit, so uncomfortable with your own body that you want nothing more that to tear off the offending fixture and hurl it across the room. Preferably out the window. 

Lauren doesn’t look like she’ll take that as an answer. “You’re hand lit up like a fucking beacon and shot a goddamn bear, Y/N.”

“I don’t know, how many times do I have to say it?” You stand, hurling yourself into movement. “This has never happened before, I don’t even know why I did it.”

“Go over it again for me?” she sighs, so exhausted that you can feel it dragging you down, too. “We can figure this out.”

“Figure this out?” you demand hollowly, falling onto the couch and sinking into the cushions. “Can’t we just be thankful that it didn’t kill us and deal with it in the morning?”

“We’re past the morning.”

“Tomorrow morning.” 

“Y/N-”

“Lol,” you plead, tearing your eyes from the silver scars adorning your palm and burying your gaze in the concern of your friend. “I can’t do this right now. Just let me breathe, please? Just - just for, like, a minute. I’ve got…” You sigh, head meeting the tops of your knees and a sob that you hope she confuses as a complaint rattling through your ribs. “I’ve got too much bouncing around right now. I need to be in a better place before I do this.”

She’s quite for a moment, chewing on her lip and picking at her fingers. “Okay. What do you want to do?”

“Smudge the house,” you say, concept not having crossed your mind until now. The thought feels alien in your muddled head. “Salt the entrances, and place charms on the walls. See if we can get some runes engraved on the posts and steps.”

“Which ones?”

“Protection, mainly. Warding. I want our coverns displayed. I want to make this place a fucking fortress.”

“This is… a lot for an animal, Y/N,” she says eventually, “or an entity. We don’t even know what it was, and you’re the only one that saw it.”

“I know,” you groan, hurling your useless stones into the armchair. 

“Maybe it’s the new environment,” she prompts helpfully, brewing tea and a coffee for herself. “I did a lot of reading before deciding to live here, unlike you. And I found all sorts of stuff about how new environments, big emotional changes, and trauma can mess with a sister’s head. Can’t see why that wouldn’t mean that your abilities wouldn't be affected.”

“Emotional changes?”

“Girl.” She raises her eyebrows, snatching the piece of paper on the kitchen island and waving it at you. Even from this distance you can see the small kiss Ryan has left at the end of the note, heart squeezing at his acceptance of your dinner invite once everyone has settled in. “You haven’t been close to someone in forever. You seem to really like this guy, there’s no way this isn’t affecting you. I felt your heart do weird shit just then. Don’t ignore this.” 

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But what about the weird thing I’ve been seeing?”

She shrugs, as though the explanation is simple. “Well, you’re the most powerful witch I’ve met. Most powerful ever, arguably. Besides Grandad, anyway. Maybe you’re projecting?”

“Projecting an evil monster in the snow?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve projected. Remember when you watched the Grudge and we all saw that bitch everywhere for a week?” she takes a loud sip, grimacing with the scalding liquid. The smell coaxes you to your feet, shuffling over and taking a chair. “You’re in a new place that is practically isolated from the rest of the world, you’re in the environment best suited to you, you’ve got a crush, and the person you worked with on the case that finally broke you is hanging around.” Her voice softens, though remains careful. “Maybe you’re just frightened. You’re going through a lot and you have too much energy for one body. You’re most likely releasing it during times of fear so you don’t explode.” 

“That… makes sense?”

“I know.”

“But maybe the Widow of the Woods is real? Wouldn’t that explain everything better?”

“The Widow of the Woods wasn’t a giant, fuck off bear thing… But I suppose it could be either. Though if we’re gonna work with the paranormal I’d at least like to have proof. Or know what the Widow is supposed to be. I can’t prove a ghost is behind this, but I can sure as hell prove that you’re a mess. So we’ll start with you and work from there. Sound good?”

You sigh, giving in and accepting the fact that you’re going to have to find some firmer footing so that you can minimise whatever it is that you might be projecting. “What would I do without you, Laurie?”

“Fuck knows. Probably die a horrible death, or live a boring life and freeze your ass off.”

“I like the cold.”

“Shut up and drink your tea,” she retorts, “I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me up until summer.” 

 

-

 

Your knees ache, bruising beneath your weight and time spent kneeling. But you don’t relent. Sat out in the cold with a small blade clutched between numb fingers. Looking away from the final structural support pole you’ve been working on, you return your attention to the beaten book on your left, worn pages lying open and paper covered in your notes and symbols. You’d started as soon as Lauren had ascended the stairs, smiling until the last sight of her disappeared behind the door and you could panic in peace. 

All that has been on your mind since has been your spellbook.

Nodding, you start to carve out the final line, muttering incantation as you go. Each groove eases your concerns and brings new blisters to light, skin red raw and begging to stop. You don’t. Not until the final set of protections are permanently etched into the wood making up your home and all that remains is to smudge what’s left. 

The sound of footsteps crunch up the path and through the snow, heavy and confident. Closing the book, you twist. Repositioning to sit on the step while the blood flows painfully back to your feet. Jeremy continues to bob towards you, smile bright and hair start against the whiteness of the world. He’s dyed it again, the once pale blues now vibrant and joyful, and your lips tug into a grin. “Hey there, Detective.”

His chest puffs slightly at the use of his title, still proud of his achievements. You pat the space beside you and he collapses onto it, admiring your handiwork. “Hey, this is cool.”

“Thanks,” you reply flippantly, fingers absently tracing the marks you’ve made, “figured it was about time I did some decorating. What’s up, got a new case file for me?”

“Nah,” he sighs, seeming quite relieved about it. “I wanted to swing by and check to see how you were.” 

“Better. Thanks for, err, answering my phone call the other night. Without you we’d have been fucked.”

He smiles warmly, lightly knocking his shoulder against yours. “Don’t worry about it, it’s my job. You’re lucky you got any signal, it was really weird. I didn’t even hear it ring honestly. I just heard you asking for help in my pocket.”

“God, that is weird,” you murmur, watching the trees sway. Trying not to think about uncomfortable your changing abilities are making you. “But I really do appreciate it, Jeremy.”

“You were pretty spooked when I picked you up though,” he responds carefully, eyes clouded with concern. “Did you see something strange?”

You shake your head. “Just a bear.” 

 

-

 

You take the steps two at a time, eager to share the town you’ve come to love with your friends. The past month has seen your footing grown steady, confident as you maneuver across the ice they struggle with. You’re at the bottom in no time, breathing in the fresh air laced with baked goods and chimney smoke. 

“First thing’s first,” you declare fondly, glancing back to make sure that everyone is still in tow - if not a little winded by the walk. Lauren, despite all of her layers of warm oranges and oatmeal wool, looks hopeful, enjoying your excitement while Trevor and Alfredo slip along behind, gripping each other for support. “We’ll hit up the local store. Geoff keeps it open pretty late, which is great.” 

“You know the store owner by name?” asks Trevor, bewildered as you set off again. He takes hold of Lauren’s mittened hand and clings for dear life. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s a small town,” you reply, offering your arm to Alfredo, who takes it gladly, and making your way down the worn street. “Everyone knows everyone here.”

“Isn’t that a little annoying?” pipes in Lauren, desperate to keep Trevor on his feet, lanky legs slipping at every opportunity. “Everyone knows your business.”

“Yeah, it can be a lot,” you admit. Geoff’s mercantile comes into view as the group keeps walking, windows welcoming and storefront dotted with the flowers Jack so diligently tends. “Like, I’m pretty sure everyone knows that Ryan and I are fucking.”

“Fuck dude,” sympathises Alfredo, catching his cussing as a group of children rush by waving. You smile back, the man attached to your arm lowering his voice. “How do ya deal with that shit?”

“Easy,” you reply, waving off Bea and her friends, and smiling kindly to their parents as you pass. They offer you quick, warm hellos, Bea’s mum insisting that she owes you a cup of tea.  _ Oh, she loves you, _ she calls, _ just adores you. Please, if you ever need a babysitting gig! _ You grin, returning your attention to your friends after eagerly accepting the offer. “Where was I?”

“You were telling us how to deal with everyone butting into your shit,” offers Alfredo. 

“Oh, yeah. You just stop caring.”

“You say that like it’s easy for you not to panic about everything all at once,” laughs Lauren, leaning against Trevor as you draw to a stop, free hand resting on the door. 

“Here’s the thing, I’ve gotten to the ‘fuck it’ stage of my life. Right now I need consistency, and this is the closest I’ve got.” 

And with that you push into the store, cheerful bell greeting your entrance and even brighter Geoff opening his arms with glee. “Y/N!” he calls, working his way from around the register and taking his steps in quick bounds. “How are you doing?”

“Really well, thanks,” you reply, smiling into his warmth and accepting the hug he pulls you into, happy chuckles resonating against your cheek. “How’re you?”

“Fantastic,” he affirms, “Detective Jackass hasn’t broken anything in a week.”

You grin. “That’s gotta be a record.”

“I know!” 

“I wanted to introduce you to some of my friends.” You motion to the three huddling together in their nervousness. “This is Lauren, her boyfriend Trevor, and their third wheel Alfredo. They live with me.”

Amidst Alfredo’s determined denials Geoff laughs, lines folding his face with age. “Well, any friend of Y/N’s is a friend of mine.” He turns slightly, bellowing into the back room. “Hey Gavin - Asshole, get out here and meet Y/N’s friends! Now, what can I do for y’all?” 

 

-

 

“I love him,” Lauren deems as you leave, backpack full of the biscuits Geoff had insisted she take. “I love my grocery dad.”

“It’s weird when you put it that way,” Trevor teases, earning himself an elbow.

“I don’t care,” she retorts. “He’s my grocery dad and I love him and he’s my favourite.”

“You just wait until you meet Lindsay,” you smile, “she’ll be your favourite too.”

Trevor pouts. “I thought I was your favourite.”

“Nup.” Lauren shakes her head, Alfredo attaching himself to your side and looking dubious down at the ice. “You’ve been replaced.”

“Wrecked,” you laugh, patting his arm as you pass. “Better luck next time.” 

The rest of the morning is spent with banter and introductions, working your way through the town and stopping off at every notable location. Jon fills their hands with free coffees and cake, Lindsay and Meg insist they stay for a beer, and Jack happily entertains Lauren for an hour in the garden. 

You’re relieved to see that they’re enjoying Motbury as much as you are, and the soft chime of your phone only adds to your positive mood. After scanning the screen you groan into standing, stretching until your shoulders pop and Alfredo casts you a critical eye. “Where’re you goin?” 

“Work,” you reply, collecting your bag. “I’ve gotta pay for you fucks somehow.” 

“Hey, I ain’t expensive,” he rejects, grinning. “What’re you going to work for though? I thought you’d have taken the day off, you know? To relax with your friends.”

“Nah, she’s fucking her boss, Fredo,” sneaks in Trevor, leaning across the stone wall he sits on. “Of course she’s gonna go to work.”

“Oh fuck off,” you laugh, waving away his words. “You can’t talk, you and Lauren met when you were her boss.”

“It was very unprofessional,” he muses fondly, watching his girlfriend explore the flowerbeds. 

“Do you really like this dude?” 

The question catches you off guard, Alfredo’s words thumping against your back. Chewing your lip, you turn to face them, both men looking at you with curiosity. “What do you mean by like?”

He rolls his eyes. “You know, like ‘like like’. Like, Trevor and Lauren like.”

You hedge around the answer, having not admitted it out loud yet. “I mean, I guess.”

“You guess?” Trevor holds up a hand, stopping your apprehension in its tracks. “C’mon Y/N, we all know it’s more than that. As soon as anyone mentions Ryan - there, there you’re doing it right now! - you get a stupid smile on your face! You fucking fancy his pants off.” 

“Alright, maybe I do. So what?”

“So?” Alfredo shakes his head, shocked. “So when are we going to meet him? We gotta put him through the rigorous testing procedure if he wants to date our girl.”

“Okay, I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that cute shit.”

“I’m serious girl-”

“I’m leaving, bye guys!”


	19. Chapter 19

The smile drops as soon as they’re out of sight, worry settling back in your chest. Nails grating against your ribcage, fists pounding against your lungs. A sleepless night stings, eyes so sore it hurts to blink. Body so beaten it’s hard to breathe. The mask of pleasantries falls to reveal the same anxieties that have riddled your waking hours since the ordeal of the previous night.

Ryan sits on the steps outside Hay Woodworks as he always does - picking at the piece of wood balanced between his knees with the tip of a knife with a look of absolute concentration knitting his brows. Hair shining and eyes intent, completely at home amongst the beams and odd flutter of snow. A warm english mustard sweatshirt somehow manages to swamp him, bundled at his elbows and pooling around his collar. Rich against the colours seeping from the storefront. But the bags encasing his eyes are strained. Deep bruises caught across his cheek bones, eyes tightlined with exhausted reds. 

He glances up just in time to see the smile peel across your lips, the aches creasing his face and wound tight in his shoulders quickly dissipating at the sight. He wobbles to his feet, wincing and holding back a groan as his limbs stretch out from the mould they’ve set. But he’s eager when calling out your name, arms open and waiting. Smile as bright as ever.  “Y/N! how are you doing? I heard about what happened last night, and-” 

The tail end of his question is lost as your ear presses to his chest, the steady tempo of his heart taking its place.  But you can feel his concerns, sense it’s churning as it turns into something worse. Distress sees his hands holding you closer, palms passing over your hair. Panic shaking against your skin. “Are you alright? Dear, talk to me. Please tell me you weren’t hurt.”

“Can we go inside?” 

He pulls away, searching your expression with a frown.  “In. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

  
  


-

  
  


You’re twitchy, and he knows it. Certain that Ryan can see you picking at your fingers laced with harsh black sigils, skin almost burnt with the incantations you’ve forced into your palms.  _ Protection _ , you’d insisted when Lauren had asked after finding you sat in the centre of the kitchen island late at night, surrounded by spell books and inscriptions.  _ From whatever haunts the treeline. From whatever resides in your touch.  _

But if you were honest, you don’t recognise most of the lines. Intricate designs had nagged incessantly at your thoughts, screaming until you’d given in and started scrawling. Markings now spanning your forearms. Your knees. Your calves. Your stomach. Anywhere you could put ink, you did. Clusters of spells tying your limbs together, charms bundled against your joints. Knuckles so worn by the ball of a pen that every ounce of power you’d uttered into existence almost seeming useless if you couldn’t throw a punch. 

 

_ What are they?  _ Lauren had asked. Taking your hand and turning it over, flinching at the sharp lines and soft curves decorating your wrists. 

_ I don’t know, _ you’d admitted, wrapping your arms around the knees you’ve bruised _. I don’t know. _

 

And it scares you. Because ever since you’d stared into eyes that were easier to explain as headlights your skin had been burning. Itching. 

And all that made sense, all that made it bearable - has been these unknown marks. 

You make sure your sleeves are down, just in case he asks. But you know he will. The questions smoulder in his eyes, concern so sharp his gaze leaves grazes against your cheeks. You’d felt it on your back, too. Following you through the workshop and up the stairs just behind the register. Nipping at your heels as you’d crossed the livingroom floor and collapsed into the battered sofa. 

The fire isn’t on, but you wish desperately that it was. And no sooner do you acknowledge the thought do the logs in the fireplace spark to life, flames roaring as though they had been for hours. Room drunk in heat, but your skin still cold. You don’t even care if he’s noticed. To exhausted to muster anything other than defeat. He doesn’t recoil, at least. His gaze, gaunt and drained, remains on you.

Ryan stands in the centre of the room, sawdust kicked into the rug and hands itching for some part of you to hold. Seeking a comfort he’s not sure how to give. He waits, and you don’t know if he prefers the silence or the prospect of: if you don’t tell him something is wrong then everything must be okay. 

When he speaks, it’s soft. “You weren’t hurt, were you?” 

He’s not asking what happened. Not asking why you’ve carved incantations into your skin, or why his fireplace is singing when it hadn’t been a moment before. Instead he’s intent on you, uncertain. 

You take a short, rattling breath. “Have there been any recent sightings of the Widow of the Woods?”

His entire expression shifts. No longer troubled, but cautious. Like he’s chewing on something unpleasant, but is too polite to spit it out. “I don’t know. You’d have to check at the library, that’s where they keep records. Why?” 

You shrug, avoiding the question, and wondering if it’s too early to collect your things and leave. Or throw yourself out the window. 

Ryan takes a step closer, pressing the issue. “Have you seen something?”

“No.” 

“Did something happen to you?”

“... No.”

“Because you’d tell me if you had, right?”

The response isn’t quick enough to keep it from sounding suspicious. “... Yeah.”

His eyes close, struggling to keep himself in the world of the waking. Ryan suppresses a shudder, hand working over his hair. You can see him shaking. “Y/N, talk to me. I need to know if you’ve been hurt-” He stops. Like it’s all too difficult to get past his lips. 

It crosses your mind that you should tell him. That, after everything, Ryan should know. But for once he looks fragile, like the slightest wind will see him fracture. Another deep breath, and an infinitely more tentative tone. “Did anything happen to Moira’s neck? Right around here.” You run a finger around the burning sensation you’re all too familiar with, tapping the base of your skull while he subconsciously rubs the nape of his neck. “And end up here?” 

He shakes his head. “What are you talking about, Y/N?”

You bite your tongue, but not in time. “Or did she, by chance, have a big fucking fur coat?”

“What-”

“What about giant glowing eyes?”

Ryan looks to be at a loss, eyes darting to the hearth and back to your general vicinity. “What the fuck is going on, Y/N? Is there something you want to tell me?” 

Another shaky breath, this time so deep you know it’s not doing any good. “No.” 

“Really?” His arms cross over his chest, and you suspect it’s to hide shaking hands. “So there’s nothing I should know about you?” 

“Ryan-”

“You don’t want to tell me that maybe, I don’t know, that maybe you’re a fucking witch or something?”

Everything in your being stops, faltering into a stuttering submission. Body screaming to stand up and run, to escape the accusation squirming at your feet. But you can’t because you’re staring at Ryan. Watching the man you’ve grown so close to start pacing, watching everything you’ve found joy in start to shatter. Then he stops suddenly, collapsing into the seat beside you. 

“Look at me, Y/N.” 

It takes all you have to drag your eyes from your hands, chancing a sideways glance. “Ryan, I’m… I’m so sorry. I should have-”

“I don’t care.”

You pause, the nerves that scream inside you quietening. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t care what you are, or aren’t. Look. All I care about is that you weren’t hurt.”

“But-”

“Nope. Listen. When I was a kid growing up around the Grisham forest we had stories about witches. You grew up there, too, so you know what I’m talking about. I guess the stories my dad told to me and the neighbourhood whenever we had a bonfire were about you. Witches living right under our noses and acting like people. A coven that’d been hidden in the forest that would lure young men and women to their deaths for fun. But as I got older, I forgot about them.” 

“I remember them.”

Ryan takes your hand gently, making sure that you’re looking at him. A thumb traces the blackened markings that promise to leave scars, a motion he’s done countless times. Staring, you can’t pull your attention away from the certainty of his expression, the way he glows with golden autumns despite being exhausted. “But then I met you, and I started remembering them again, too. Just small things, at first. You know? Nothing major, or anything that would start a witch hunt. Just, regular stuff. Those fucking stones you keep with you, the little things I thought were doodles on your hands.” He squeezes. “The weird teas you’d drink for different reasons - that you taught me how to do, by the way. It all just… I dunno. Just started to make sense. Then one day, you called yourself a witchy woman as a joke, and I accepted it as true.”

“When?”

“What? When did I know?” Ryan doesn’t even have to think about it. “When we were at the Tavern the first time. I - now this is gonna be a little weird. Sorry. But I could almost feel you in my head when I was remembering my daughter.” Your body runs cold, but he doesn’t let you dwell in it. “It replays in my head a lot, so I know how the memory goes. I get home, I go upstairs.” He takes a breath. “I find her, and I scream. But it was different this time. Like I felt you there, hugging me and telling me to leave her in peace.”  

“You know,” you almost choke, swallowing the tears and instead focusing on the comfort pooling into the hand he holds. “Those witch stories were supposed to scare people.”

“But you’re not scary.”

“You haven’t been me for the past 24 hours.” 

“Well then,” Ryan starts, gently directing you into his embrace, “maybe you should talk about it.” 

You nod, but take your time in his arms. Making sure to bathe in the belonging and warmth he offers until breathing gets easier. “I don’t know what I saw,” you admit, “but on the way back from the airport I saw something in the storm. It was big, and I was terrified. I didn’t think or anything, but its like I almost knew what to do to keep it away.  I kinda shot something - energy I guess - at it, and it left. Jeremy says it was a bear, but ever since I’ve been on edge. Like everything is changing and I don’t know who I am anymore. Or what I should be doing. It’s irrational, I’m covering in fucking sigils, and I can’t sleep.”

“But it didn’t hurt you?”

“No.” 

Ryan pulls back slightly, brushing the hair from your face and letting his fingers linger against your burning cheek. He considers you thoughtfully, deliberating his options. “And you want it to be a bear, so you can stop panicking?”

You don’t respond, biting your bottom lip. With every passing moment your relaxing, like he’s somehow drawing the anxieties and fears from your hands and claiming them as his own. The room crackles and pops with life, draped in simple comforts. Then he smiles, a slow tug of his lips until a lopsided curve makes your heart sing. 

“Don’t worry, Y/N. It’s just a bear. It won’t ever hurt you, I promise.”

You chuckle, erratic, but easy. “C’mon, at least try and be convincing.” 

Ryan shakes his head, amused. His hands come to rest either side of your face, fingers grazing your neck and lost in your hair as palms cushion your cheeks. He gets closer, eyes so blue that you’re drifting. Floating in the lakes warm beneath the sun. A thumb brushes your lip, shivers rippling across your skin as his voice lowers to a soft, gentle hum. “Trust me, Dear. The Widow of the Woods is a story to scare children and keep the boring town of Motbury busy. Just because it’s blamed for the things we don’t understand doesn’t mean it’s real. The scariest thing here, in this town, are the people. What you saw was most likely a bear, a completely ordinary thing.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lips a lasting impression before he pulls you close. “Did that help?”

“Not really,” you smile, “but I’m really enjoying the hug.”

“Well,” he laughs, another kiss buried in your hair, “I’ve got plenty of them.”

“Will you bring them with you Tuesday night? I’m making dinner and I’d kinda like you to meet my friends.”

Ryan remains quiet, but as soon as you consider pulling away he speaks. “As what?” You hum, confused. He rocks slightly, the pair of you swaying. “As what, Y/N? Your boss? Your witchy sacrifice to the devil? The bear wrangler?”

He gains himself a finger in the ribs, struggling to hold on and keep out of reach. Laughter is warm against your neck, his hair brushing your skin. “I was thinking of introducing you as my boyfriend.”

He pulls away suddenly, hands on the tops of your arms and eyes searching your face. Something inside him jumps, sparking into your limbs excitedly. “Am I your boyfriend?”

“I, err… I should have asked first, huh? Do you wanna be? Cus if not this is kinda seriously awkward-”

Ryan stops the train wreck of your stammering before you can finish, lips soft when moving against yours. Gentle and adoring until you sigh into his arms. 

“Of course I want to, you fucking idiot.”


	20. Chapter 20

“You guys gonna be alright finding your own way home?”

Lauren makes a noise on the other end of the phone, offended that you’d question her lacking sense of direction and desire for adventure. “Of course we will. If not, I know where the pub is.”

“At least you won’t starve out in the wilderness.”

“Excuse me?” Lauren laughs, the sound of snow crunching underfoot soft beneath her teasing. “Have you actually seen this place? There’s a bakery or coffee shop on every corner. I’m going to eat myself sick.”

“I have noticed, and it’s glorious. Oh, before I forget.” Your foot hits the cobblestone lining the town centre, gaze barely managing to focus on the three figures you assume to be your friends going the opposite direction of home. Lifting a hand, you wave. “Look to your right - no, other right. Hey. Hey, it’s me. So, tomorrow night I’m thinking of having Ryan over for dinner, if that’s all good by you guys?” 

“Hold up a minute, bitch. Is this why you’re fucking glowing?”

“Glowing?”

Lauren gasps, loud enough for you to hear her across the expanse of the town. She jabs an accusatory finger at you, and you can almost see her glaring. “You’re lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, Y/N. The only reason for you being so happy-”

“- because I’m not allowed to be happy?”

“- is because something’s happened between you and lover lumberjack! Talk, right now. Or I’m jogging over there.” 

You take a step back, testing the distant yellow figure. “You wouldn’t run.”

“You wanna go?”

  
  


-

 

Despite her threats, Lauren hadn’t pursued you further than the fountain. Trevor had managed to swoop in and stop the yelling, lifting her in his arms until her shouting redirects to him. He’d implored that you keep running, that he’d sacrifice himself for your life, and you’d taken him on it. Jogging most of the way to the police station until the laughter had faded and your lungs burn, throat raw with fresh air and giggles.

“Are you dying?” Michael’s voice makes you jump, whirling on him halfway through the station entrance with a tray of coffee cups. “Cus if not, I could use a hand holding this fucking thing open.”

“I mean, dying is a little extreme,” you manage, taking the stairs slowly and wedging the door open around him. “But you know, exercise will do that to you.”

“That’s why I don’t run anywhere,” he chuckles, “it’s not worth the pain.”

“You’re right,” you insist, thankful for the ache of your body as the artificial warmth of the room washes over. “I’m never running again. Ever.”

“Y/N,” exclaims another voice from behind the reception desk, Jeremy moving around the woman stood beside him, “what’re you doing here? I thought you were taking the day off cus of your friends moving in.” 

“I’ll end up picking them up from the tavern later on tonight, so I’ve got some time to kill.”

He smiles, taking you by the elbow and bringing you over. “In that case, let me introduce you to Jackie Butler from forensics. She’s been our go to girl with the Lumberjack of Motbury. Jackie, this is Y/N.” 

The woman smiles, a beautiful expression that peels across elegant features. Bright hazel eyes sparkle behind thick lashes, face framed with sheets of chestnut hair. She offers a delicate but firm handshake, confident. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Jeremy was just telling me how you’ve rendered my job useless.” She laughs musically. “About time. I need a break. Bodies get a bit much, they don’t really hold a juicy conversation. Juicy everything else, but not conversation.” 

“Okay, ew.” Jeremy wrinkles his nose, but Jackie rolls her eyes.

“Jackie comes down from the lab every now and again,” Michael continues, handing out the coffees, giving you the cup holder for the lack of anything else to offer. “We’ve been thinking about getting a full time forensics expert in now that the case is moving again.”

“That’s a great idea,” you agree, “is there anything new?”

“Eeehhh... C’mon follow me, we’ll head through and I’ll show you what I’ve got. I ordered pizza, so it won’t take long. I’m starving.”

You’re already pulling your phone out as their backs turn, fingers flying frantically across the keyboard while you follow them down the hall.

 

**Y/N:** Fredo, get to the police station.

**Alfredo:** Why? U good?

**Y/N:** Now. 

**Alfredo:** You’re not making me less panicky

**Alfredo:** Cus now I’m panicking.

**Alfredo:** Cus you’re being weird.

**Y/N:** Can’t explain, about to go into a meeting. Just trust me. CUTE GURRRLLL.

 

“Hey Y/N, you alright back there?”

“Hmm?” 

Jeremy raises and eyebrow, glancing at your phone. You quickly stash it away, smiling innocently when stepping back into the room he’s holding the door open too. The whiteboard inside is covered in images. Photographs of victims accompanied by trauma patterns of an array of weapon types, close ups on skull structures and significant wounds, and lists upon lists of dot points. Jackie adds some notes here and there while Michael takes a seat, the door closing with a soft click before Jeremy slips past and starts unloading the boxes tucked beneath the closest desk. 

“We’ve compiled all of the files related to the case - which is a lot of paperwork, I wanna put that out there - and this is everything.” Jeremy shuffles the final box onto the table, taking off the lid. “This was the first victim, Jemma Perkins. She and number 2,” he points to another stack of files, “James Williams, were found with their skulls. After that none of the others were recovered.”

“Jeremy told me about your theory, Y/N,” continues Jackie, clicking the lid back on her pen, “about combining number 1 and 2 with the injuries experienced by the livestock, and we came to the same conclusion you did.” Jackie circles one of the images on the board with her finger. “We don’t have any of the skulls from the livestock, but we do have pictures. So we did a number of tests and confirmed your suspicions, based on what we had. It’d have to be a relatively heavy object, something big enough to cave in bone.”

You nod along with her words, standing before the board and taking in the wounds. “What about the lacerations, any ideas?”

Jackie shakes her head. “Nada. We haven’t been able to figure out what’d make that kind of pattern, let alone split skin like that.”

You pull a face. “It looks a lot like the grooves on the houses.”

Jeremy makes a displeased sound that rattles at the back of his throat. “So you’re saying we should look at the shape of animal claws to determine the weapon?”

It takes you a moment, but you eventually give the idea some credit. “I wasn’t thinking that, but it certainly might help. Could be a customised weapon.”

Michael sits up in his seat, leaning across the bench. “You’re thinking that we should track the marks, figure out when they started and compare it to the murders?”

“Yeah. We already know that the knocking and all of this started at around the same time, but we haven’t actually tied the damage to it. People have been saying all sorts.”

“Animals?” Jackie inquires curiously, perching on the end of a table. “I saw them on my way in. They look like bear claws or something out of a horror movie.”

“We’ve already determined that the killer is a human being,” Jeremy dismisses, waving a hand. “So I think It’d be safe to assume that the knocking was a person that drew an animal in.”

“But what if they’re connected further than that?” you push, Michael nodding by your side. “I can’t see an animal rocking up just in time for the person to leave every single time. Wouldn’t they go after the food that’s walking around, and not locked in a house box?”

Jeremy doesn’t respond immediately. “Animals aren’t smart. I honestly don’t think that animal marks are related-”

“I think it’s worth investigating,” interjects Jackie firmly, “just to rule it out.”

“There’s nothing to rule out.”

“Why won’t you at least try?” She’s growing frustrated, standing up and placing her hands on her hips. 

Jeremy fumes quietly, Michael taking over with a cheeky grin. “It’s because all the damn looneys in the town think the marks on their doors are from the Widow of the Woods.”

“Widow of the Woods?”

“It’s a local ghost story,” you explain, wringing your hands. “Jeremy is very against acknowledging that it could play a role in all this.”

“Because it can’t play a role! Ghosts aren’t real.”

“But copycats are,” you interject, “besides. We’re not going to go ghost hunting. We’ll be tracking the markings and applying it to the victims timeline. You don’t even have to think about Turner.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrow, curious but too confronted for pleasantries. “Turner?”

“Moira Turner. Badass, the first leader of Motbury, witch hunt victim that disappeared and searches for her lost son-”

“I don’t care, Y/N. I really couldn’t give a crap about the stupid story, or the people who believe it. Look. Whoever’s been telling you that this ghost story has any truth in it is crazy. We work with facts, not scary stories.” 

“How are we supposed to work with facts if you refuse to let us find any? As detectives we investigate every lead, no matter how crazy it is.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Y/N, you’re not a detective!”

“I wish you’d realised that sooner, rather than forcing this fucking case on me!”

“Okay.” Michael scampers to his feet, putting himself between his friends as a form of crowd control. “How about this? Y/N and me will check out the marks, while Jeremy prepares an ‘I told you so’ speech. Yeah?” 

“I like it,” you confirm curtly, gathering your things. “C’mon, Michael, let’s go do our jobs.” 


	21. Chapter 21

The first thing that smacks against your chest isn’t the expected fever throbbing from the heaters clamped right the way through the waiting room and reception - it’s Alfredo. He stands as soon as he sees you coming, fracturing away from the group huddled in a collection of chairs and playing with children’s toys to pass the time, and launching towards you with worry set in his expression. It nearly knocks you off balance, fumbling until he snatches you from the fall. Warm hands on the small of your back, his nerves pooling by your boots.

“Hey,” he squeaks, hands leading you back to your feet, “sorry bout that. Definitely your fault.”

“My fault?” you repeat, poking him in the chest. “How is this my fault, Fredo?”

“Cus you made it sound like you were dying.” He drags out the final world, holding it heavy in his hands.  “I was worried sick, man.”

Your eyebrow quirks, but heart warms all the same. Patting his cheek, you pull away with his worries in your palm, Alfredo finding it far easier to settle. “You’re so dramatic.”

“But - but you, ugh. Fine. FINE.” He shuffles with relief, following your lead to unclog the doorway so the others can exit. 

Unsurprisingly, Detective Dooley doesn’t emerge. Michael, however, throws you a filthy look around motioning for Jackie to go ahead of him. Once he’s out of the way you can see Lauren perching on a chair beside Trevor, both content in their conversation. A exuberant hand gesture here, a peel of laughter there - until Lauren spots you. With a smile that shows just how desperate she is for information, she stands, practically skipping over while Trevor groans to his feet. 

Alfredo ignores them. “Why’d you go and freak me out like that? Huh? What did you need me here for?”

You take his elbow, leading him over to the reception desk where Michael and Jackie stand locked in paperwork and the scratching of pens over chatter. Alfredo gets harder to move the closer he gets, mouth hanging open until you remind him to shut it. 

Michael looks up, smiling and pushing the file away. “Thanks for not leaving without me, asshole. I’ll be ready to go in a few.” 

“No worries,” you wave, motioning to your friends. “I actually wanted to introduce you to my roommates. This is Lauren and her boyfriend, Trevor. Cutest couple you’ll ever meet.” Pushing Alfredo forward, he stammers a little when Jackie turns her gaze to him with a delicate smile. “And this is Alfredo, who is single. Very single.” 

“Very single? How dare-” he argues, offended before realising it’s best to agree. “I mean, yup. That me dawg. Very single. Super single. Super nervous and single. Super ready to run outta dis room and never come back single-”

“Jackie,” she introduces, holding out a hand to Alfredo, who stares at it before realising he should actually participate in the interaction. “Jackie Butler. Also relatively single.”

“Relatively?” Alfredo pries, the blush blazing in his cheeks making you squint. Lauren throws Trevor a knowing glance, Michael scrutinising the man with narrow eyes and a cheeky smile creeping onto his face. “How relatively is relatively?”

“I’m married to my work,” Jackie shrugs, “but we’re in a pretty open relationship. Besides, It’s kinda hard to hold a conversation with dead people.”

Michael leans across to her, elbow finding her side. “Hey, you’ve already used that joke.”

She’s affronted, nose wrinkling. “I can reuse jokes.” 

“I won’t remember them anyway,” Alfredo insists somewhat helpfully, “I won’t remember anything as soon as I walk outta that door.” 

“Not even my name?” 

His eyes widen, scrambling. “I, err - no, no that’s not what I mean. I’ll-”

Jackie laughs, placing a hand on his arm to stop his stammering. “Don’t worry, I’m picking on you. Hey, I know how you can remember my name.” He squeaks something that sounds close to a question, Trevor’s laughter rubbing against his side. Jackie smiles one more brilliant beam, scribbling on a piece of paper and handing it over before repositioning her bag and heading towards the door. “Take me out sometime, yeah?”

“Yeah… Yeah, no I will. I’ll take you out so good.”

“Too much,” you murmur, watching him stare after the woman stepping into the snow. “Remember to breathe.” 

“Breathe, right.” Alfredo shakes himself. “I don’t know how to do that. Oh my god. What if I never remember how to breathe?”

Michael laughs, turning back to the reception desk and collecting a packed notepad. “Dude, you’re gonna have to learn if you wanna take out Jackie more than once.”

“Wouldn’t dying on the first date actually be something she’d enjoy?” Michael looks at you, considering the idea. Alfredo, Trevor and Lauren, however, are less appreciative. Your eyes narrow. “What? She’s a forensic science technician. Don’t judge me.”

Lauren shakes her head. “Oh, I’m judging you.”

“Stop.”

“Nope, you’re being judged.” 

“Well, judge me in the car,” you offer, “because I’m taking you to the library while Trevor teaches Alfredo how to breathe again.”

Her face falls disingenuously, bottom lip jutting out. “Oh c’mon, the tavern is calling my name, Y/N.”

“I’m married to the owner,” pries Michael, leading the way towards the exit, “I’ll get the first few rounds free if you help out.”

“Consider me in.”

“You didn’t really have a choice,” you admit. 

“Let me at least pretend I have free will, would you?”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”   
  


\-    
  


Michael lets out a monumental groan, head tossed back and sliding in his seat. Though no one dares shush a detective, you can tell that everyone in the library wants too. Frustration crawls over the shelves packed with books, burrowing into the carpet and between seat cushions. Glares thrown out the corner of eyes bounce against your back and collide with the young man who, honestly, doesn’t care anymore. Buried beneath a pile of paper that he’d determined to be useless, Michael can’t hold in his disappointment. “This is useless,” he denounces, “we aren’t getting anywhere with all this shit.”

You smile tentatively, voice far lower than his. “It could be worse.”

His eyes narrow. “All I can see are scratches every time I fucking blink. I’ll be dreaming about them for the rest of my damn life.”

“Okay, maybe it couldn’t be.” You rap your pen on the counter, jittery and closed off by a scattering of thick files and paperwork. “But we’re getting somewhere. We’ve come up with a fair amount. We know there’s a connection for sure now, we just gotta find it.” 

Lauren nods in agreement, still not looking up from the paper she’s glued herself too. Scanning the sentences like the answer will jump out at her at any minute. “We’ve got a lot more than when we started.” 

He pulls a face. “We’ve got a shitty timeline.” 

“Shitty?” Lauren glares, leaning across the table with an accusatory finger. “That’s a great timeline.”

He shakes his head. “It’s only got 2 colours, and not nearly enough pictures.”

“This isn’t a school project.”

“Thank fuck, cus if it was we’d fail.”

His volume rises, and with it comes the disapproving expression of the librarian. Before Lauren can lash back you place a commanding hand on her forearm, using your energy to force her frustration back down to a simmer rather than a boil. Once you’ve got her emotion under control - which, honestly you shouldn’t have taken charge over in the first place, but you’re far too exhausted to spare time to bickering when there’s work to do - you glance between the pair. “C’mon, the room across the way is free. We’ll take our shit and talk in there.” 

“Good,” she says, settled but still trying to hide a smile in a scowl, “cus I got a lot to say to this asshole.”

“I could arrest you,” Michael threatens, shifting into standing and filling his arms with paperwork. “Could put you away for life.”

“Do it,” Lauren challenges, gathering up as much as she can and throwing him a pleading expression. “Please. Anything is better than dealing with you.”

He gasps theatrically, loud enough for heads to turn. 

You pick up the pace, shifting photocopied paperwork into an evidence box, snapping on the lid. “Nope, that’s it. We’re leaving. Now. Both of you.” 

“Wait, but what about the room?” Lauren asks, Michael nodding feverishly by her side. Both drop the facade of arguing, arms loaded and balance struggling to keep everything together. 

“I don’t think there’s much more we can do here. If we go to the station we might be able to match cases to the scratches timeline we’ve made. Maybe there are some murders we’ve missed that should actually be involved?” 

“That’s… actually a good idea. Fuck.” Michael sighs, “Damn it, Y/N. Why are you so good at this?”

“Just doing my job. Now let’s go before we’re kicked out.” Grumbles follow, two shuffling their feet in the general direction of the exit. Michael makes it there first, fast enough to be out of ear shot when you catch Lauren by the elbow. “Hey.”

“Hey, you know we’re not actually fighting, right?”

“What? Of course I know that.”

“Then why’d you go and play about with my feelings?” 

She’s not offended, but guilt wallows in your chest. “I’m sorry, I’m just so exhausted and overwhelmed and I just - ugh. I kinda needed something to control? I’m really sorry, but that’s not why I’m talking to you. I actually had something I wanted you to look at, if that’s alright?”

Lauren nods, happier. “Don’t worry about it, I’m just messing. I really don’t care. But sure, what’s up?”

“Well, I was thinking we should see if we can check out any books on Moira Turner.”

“By we, you mean that I should do it while you’re doing police work?”

It’s your turn to nod. “Pretty much. I think they’ve forgotten I’m not a real detective so I’m going to get as much done as possible. Besides, I honestly think that looking into the Widow of the Woods is a beneficial idea. You and I both know that what we saw wasn’t a bear, and I just want to be sure. Ryan said they had some of her journals here. So if we pick them up, along with any material we can find on the ghost story, we might be able to match them to the markings.”

“Or debunk them.” 

“Exactly. If someone is pretending to be the Widow, or at least copying the stories, it’d be good to know what they’re actually basing their methods off. We might be able to get one step ahead of them.”

Lauren drums her fingers against the files she’s holding, glancing over to the librarian - who seems relieved that Michael is now safely locked outside. “The more we know about Turner, the more we know about the killer.”

“If the killer is a copycat.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.” Her eyes return to you, expression faltering a little. “And if there is actually a relation between the 2, what does that mean?”

“Means I’m going to have to have words with Jeremy about looking into the possibility. He can’t deny facts, but we’ll have to know for sure.”

“Okay. I’ll drop these off at the car and start searching the shelves for everything I can find. I’ll bring it all home and we can look at it all tonight. You got a library card?”

You pull a disgusted face. “No.”

“Oh god, this is going to take forever.”   
  


-

 

The office you’d claimed as your own remains untouched, photos still plastered to the walls and notes stuck wherever a blank space can be found. Bodies and their wounds are lined up chronologically, the main points in their files blaring for all to see. But ignoring them is easy, making your way to the desk with Michael in tow. Placing the box of files down - now arranged properly - you waste no time in pulling out the timeline Lauren has created and spreading it across the table. 

“So,” you start, staring at the numbers, “should we go over what we already know?”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Michael affirms with a groan and stretch, “get us back into the zone.” 

You nod. “Okay. What we currently know about the timeline is that the victims, the markings, and storms line up. A child goes missing almost every time the weather gets bad, and with the bad weather we start finding the scratches.”

“And the knocking,” Michael adds. “Every report of someone knocking during a storm matches with the scratches. Which, coincidentally - but not really a coincidence hopefully - all share similarities with our local ghost story. So, copycat.”

“Maybe copycat, yeah. Problem is, we can’t determine whether the scratches are man made or an animal. Man made will strengthen our theory but animal will give Jeremy the right to call us idiots.” 

Michael’s face contorts. “We’re gonna have to wait for Jackie on that one. She’s going through the claw marks as we speak.” 

“Right, well.” You wait a beat, trying to decide the best course of action to further the investigation. “I guess - err, well I guess we’ll have to assume that they’re connected until proven otherwise?”

Michael runs a hand over his face, squishing his features. “That’s our best bet. The pattern is too perfect for it to be an animal turning up every damn time. Too close to the Widow story, too.” 

“I agree. No way the sound of knocking could travel far enough to draw anything in. Good. We’ve got a lead that I really hope Jackie won’t shoot down.” 

“Cool. Whoever is knocking is also the one most likely causing property damage. And the townsfolk seem to think the Widow is still looking for her kid, which is why she’s taking the others. But killing them doesn’t make sense,” Michael continues, glancing to the wall of bodies and back down to the timeline. “And we can’t confirm a ghost story, but it might work as a cover for the killer. We’ve got some superstitious fucks living here, and it’d throw people off the scent of a murdering bastard. I reckon it’s possible that this fucker is hiding behind the Widow to keep from getting caught. But... we don’t have any real physical evidence that connects our murderer to the knocking Widow thing.”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck to try and ease the burning you’ve almost become used too. “You’re right. We can say that they’re related all we want but if we don’t have anything that proves it, it won’t matter.” 

“And the lab has given us nothing new.” Michael throws his arms up, starting to pace. Running ruts in the floor. “There’s gotta be something,” he groans, “anything! All we need is something that’s similar to the scratches, so we can either match them or throw the theory out. But what-” He stops dead, anxious movements frozen as he faces the wall of photos. Silence for a few beats, long enough for you to haul your body towards him. “What about the marks on the bodies?”

“Jackie already said that she couldn’t find anything definitive.” 

He holds up a hand, turning to you with an excited expression. “But what if we’re missing the one body that matches the scratches?”

“So we’re trying to apply the marks to the wrong body?”

Pulling out a pen, he makes small notes across the timeline, jotting down when each murder occured. “Yes! Look: each of the victims was taken on the same day a storm happened. Without fail. But here, and here,” he circles a few dates, “it’s a break in the pattern.”

“A break that doesn’t have any logical reason,” you murmur, “that doesn’t make any sense. If we’ve got a kid going missing every storm, why are these ones free?”

Michael snaps the lid back on his pen, taking you by the shoulders. “What if they’re not free?”

“What… oh my god.”

“What if we’ve just missed them? What if they were already ‘solved’ before we noticed the pattern, and we just forgot about them cus they weren’t relevant to the Lumberjack anymore?” 

You’re pulling away before he finishes talking, large bounds seeing you at the door and yanking it open. Heels squeaking across lino flooring, the odd officer throwing curious glances out of their respective offices, members inhabiting the bullpen keeping out of your way. Michael’s hot on your heels, grin still plastered to his face. 

“If we’ve got some floating cases that we can tie to the Lumberjack of Motbury,” you state, barrelling into the evidence locker and scanning the shelves, “then we might find a body that matches the marks. We’ll have a lead on a copycat.” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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Megan Pottsman

Missing 17/12/2015 - Found 22/12/2015

Body, female. 10 yo. Found 500 meters past tree line.

Blunt force trauma. Lacerations across torso, shoulders, base of skull. 

Clear Bear Attack. No labs required.

 

SCRIPT

Interview with Mathew. D. Pottsman (Father)

Interviewer: Officer G. Sorola

Supervisor: Det. Insp. M. Hullum

 

 

17/12/2015 03:37am 

 

Sorola: Hello, Mr. Pottsman, I’m Officer Sorola. I’m going to ask you some questions relating to your daughter’s disappearance. Please remember that you will need to tell us everything so that we can do our jobs. 

 

Pottsman: Yeah, okay. I can do that.

 

Sorola: And you’re alright with being recorded?

 

Pottsman: Yes.

 

Sorola: Then lets get started. Mr. Pottsman, when was the last time you saw Megan?

 

Pottsman: Probably at dinner the night she went missin’. I made her favourite, and she wanted to watch TV. I went to do some reading and left her watching some cartoon show. 

 

Sorola: Is that all?

 

Pottsman: I heard her.

 

Sorola: Pardon?

 

Pottsman: I heard her. There was a knock on the door and she answered it. I heard her tell me she was going out, and that’s the last of it. Told her to come back before the snow got too bad. When the street lamps came on. But she… she didn’t.

 

Sorola: Any ideas as to which of her friends it was?

 

Pottsman: … no.

 

Sorola: No?

 

Pottsman: That’s what I said. I don’t know which friend it was.

 

Sorola: So, please let me know if I’ve somehow misunderstood you. You let your 10 year old daughter leave the house with someone you assume to have been a friend, of who you don’t know, in the middle of a brewing snow storm? And, more importantly,you made no effort to check on your daughter and her friend for yourself. 

 

Pottsman: No, no now you’re making it sound like I wanted her to leave. Like I don’t love my daughter!

 

Sorola: I haven’t said anything of the sort.

 

Pottsman: You don’t have too! You’re sat right in front of me acting all high and mighty. You know what? It’s my fault. There, I said it. It’s all my fault. I was a shitty dad and now my daughter is missing. If Megan doesn’t come back I’m going to be the one that’s killed her. Not whoever took her, not the weather. Not some wild animal. Me, cus I couldn’t bring myself to be a good dad.

 

Sorola: Mr. Pottsman, please. No one here is accusing you of anything. Right now this is a missing persons case and we’re doing everything we can to locate your daughter. That includes interviewing everyone that came into contact with her before the incident. The person who you claim to have knocked on the door is a prime suspect, and possibly the last person to have seen Megan. Is she likely to have left with an adult?

 

Pottsman: I don’t think so. She understood stranger danger.

 

Sorola: What about an adult she recognised? 

 

Pottsman: Listen here, officer. Everyone in this town knows everyone. We’re friends with every family here cus we all go to that damn community garden thing. Megan gets along with all of them, even that new carpenter down the street. She baked him some cookies cus she was worried he wouldn’t have any friends, ha, she told him to go to the garden cus she though he’d get along with the large guy. What’s his name? Jack? He was over the freakin’ moon when he fixed up our neighbours house and she brought them out with a little card she’d made. 

 

Sorola: New carpenter? Are you talking about Haywood? 

 

Pottsman: Hmm? Yeah, him. Stand up bloke. You don’t think it was him, do you? Oh god, Megan told him to hang around with the other kids.

 

Sorola: No, we don’t believe he is involved. His alibi is airtight. He is accounted for outside his home at the time Megan disappeared. We currently have no suspects, which is why we’re talking to you.

 

Pottsman: So you do think I did it! 

 

Sorola: Please, we’ve been over this.    

 

Pottsman: I - I… okay. No, okay. I’m sorry. My nerves are just - it’s been a long few hours. I’ve smoked a pack. A whole pack, can you believe it? I haven’t smoked in years, and now I can’t sit still without something between my damn fingers.  

 

Sorola: It’s perfectly normal to revert into old habits when you’re nervous.

 

Pottsman: Nervous? No, no the claw marks on my neighbour’s porch that’ve now turned up on mine make me nervous. The snow and that bleedin’ livestock massacre that’s going on either side of my home makes me nervous. But my daughter being missing? I’m fucking terrified. I’m so scared I can’t see straight. I just - I can’t. Everytime I close my eyes I can hear that damn knocking. I should have gotten the door. Jumped that fucking railing so Meg didn’t have to open it. It should’ve been me. Oh god, it should’ve been me.

 

 

“Hey Michael,” you call over your shoulder, fanning out the photos of the tiny body covered in blood and curled in the snow. “I think I’ve found another one.”

His head pops up over the stack of files he’s working through, eyes encased in growing bags. Sat cross legged in the evidence locker, he’d long since abandoned the confines of a desk. “What’s the date?”

“She was found on the 17th of December in 2015.”

He whistles, glancing down to the timeline at his feet and following the numbers with his finger. “Got it! Gimme a name.” 

“Megan Pottsman,” you read off, peering at a shot of her on a medical table. Body bloated, skin crossed with blues and bruises. 

“She’s an early one.”

“She’s the 3rd we’ve found in 2015,” you murmur, bringing the photo you hold closer. “Happened before Jeremy moved here, too. He arrived in 2016, I think? This victim was put down as a bear attack.”

Michael perks up, shuffling over to you and sifting through the file. He stops on one of the same set of photos you’re trying to make sense of, lost in the line carving across skin. “Doesn’t look like a bear.” 

“Bears rarely attack people, too,” you add. “Get this: her dad said in an interview that she went out with someone that knocked on the door. He thought it was a friend, and look at the lacerations. They’re not quite like the ones on the victims we’ve got, by they’re a damn lot closer to the markings on entryways of Pottsman’s home and the neighbours.”

“You’re right!” Michael exclaims, “this is the third body with similar markings. And his testimony puts the knocking and the scratches in the same timeframe as the missing person.” 

“Is there a photo of her from behind?” you ask, rifling through the contents, urged on by the burn smouldering at the base of your skull. Irritation thick around your throat. It takes a moment for you to find, but eventually the gloss of the image you’re searching for sticks to your fingers. 

“Here,” says Michael, plucking the picture from your hand and lining it up with the other 2 photos of the 2015 victims, all presenting their necks. 

Drawing closer it gets harder to breathe. With an uncomfortable constricting sensation that tightens your throat - of which you blatantly try to ignore -  you take in the wounds. It’s not hard to recognise them anymore. The tell tale signs are obvious after having witnessed them so many times. The slightly blacked curl of the incision located at the base of the skull. The raw irritation circling the neck. Sure, their skulls hadn’t been removed like the later victims, but they matched the earliest cases you had, clumsy as the wounds may be. 

“This is fantastic. That ties our killer to the body!”

Michael doesn’t even question you with a funny look, equally excited. “Perfect in the worst possible way, but absolutely awesome. We’ve finally got an undeniable link between the Widow ghost story knocking bullshit and the killer. Meaning analysing the scratches on doorways and comparing them to the body lacerations will help with determining the murder weapon!”

You’re nodding, compiling the evidence into a seperate box and pointing to Michael with a determined finger. “You got Jackie’s number?”

He rockets into standing. “You bet your ass I do!” 

“Then call her, damn it. With this information she’ll be able to confirm the correlation between the new victims and the scratches, prove that we should be looking into the possibility of a copycat killer for the Widow of the Woods. We’ll finally prove to Jeremy that he’s a fucking idiot for not listening! We can do this.” 

“We can fucking do this!”

“I’m absolutely exhausted! I’m going home.”

“Me too!” 

“Nope,” you reject, beaming at him and handing over the box, “you’re going to face the beast.” 

“How dare you call Jackie a beast?”

“Jackie? Hell no. I’m talking about Jeremy. You can tell him he’s wrong, I value my life.” 

  
  


-

  
  


The walk home is everything you could have asked for. Cold enough for the wind to nip at the skin lining your cheeks, to gnaw on your nose until it’s red raw; but warm enough in the burrow of your clothing. And isolated enough to gather your thoughts into something you can almost excuse for a pile.

Because as the snow starts to dance, the streets clear. Families giggling with eager children into shelter, doors closing with audible snaps and warm orange light flooding from the windows. Even the distant figure of Ryan, of who you raise a hand to wave to as he sits stagnant on his front porch watching the white caught on the wind, stands to head inside. You don’t blame him. Continuing past until the store disappears behind you.

It’s quiet, which is nice. A welcome change to the mayhem that’s been inhabiting your mind so frequently. Chaos causing havoc and a constant stream of uncontrollable chatter. Hands buried deep in your pockets, it’s with every turn of your charmed stones that you realise just why it’s been so loud inside you head. Why you haven’t tried to instate some silence. 

 

Because, if you had, you’d remember her. 

 

Which, honestly, isn’t ideal with an open serial homicide case running rampant through your priorities. 

And again, now that you’ve mentioned honesty to yourself, you can’t avoid the reason why you’re so frustrated with Jeremy. Why you want to take him by the shoulders and shake, desperate to hear the rattle of common sense. Of a failure you’ve both shared, and the experience you seem to have taken away while he’s remained as stubborn as ever. If he keeps going the way he is, refusing to explore a potential lead because it seems implausible, or silly, or pointless, someone else is going to die. 

The crunching of snow beneath your boots works wonders, sound enough to ease the panic bubbling just below the surface. Every few steps draws in a deep, freezing breathe. Calm with every recount of  _ ‘left foot, right foot, repeat’ _ . Doused in the glow of happy homes and flanked by snow banks, it all starts to make sense. There’s an uncomfortably misplaced relief at the prospect of connecting the things you knew to be related all along, the links between the scratches, knocking, and missing children now so solid that people can’t ignore it. 

So solid that you can’t question your sanity anymore, because the evidence is clear as day. Paranormal or otherwise. The Widow of the Woods, or the story at least, had a role to play. Of that you were sure.

The lodge comes into view after a few more minutes of quiet walking, nothing but the wind accompanying its breech above the snow. Through the windows comes the compassionate glow of Lauren’s summertime; of warmth and comfort and family as she spins in Trevor’s arms, the pair laughing and dancing in the firelight. The hum of music trembling into the snow. Wrapped in the intoxication of togetherness, of the overwhelming love they have for one another - that same love that greets you at the door as you ease off your shoes and unravel from your layers.  

But you don’t bother them, not yet, anyway. Instead watching them claim the living room as a dancefloor, Lauren’s sunshine caught in Trevor’s gaze that looks as though he can’t thank the stars enough for the beauty he holds in his hands. Can’t tell the woman with shining cheeks and a smile that brightens the room just how wonderful she is. How she glows whenever he so much as throws her a glance, or fractures into rays of gold when he smiles. Her happiness so warm and inviting that it throbs around her body, casting those she loves in her own light. And as he looks at her now, it’s like words won’t be enough. 

 

That nothing will be, which is why he’ll never stop trying. 


	23. Chapter 23

“Are you sure you guys don’t need our help?” Trevor asks for what feels like the hundredth time, shuffling his feet and shrugging on a thick black trenchcoat. Fiddling with the sleeves, he casts glance to his girlfriend that makes it undeniably clear that he doesn’t intend on offering his time to the cause. The quirk of an eyebrow challenges her disapproval.

Lauren gives him yet another exacerbated look, taking the challenge in her stride. Hands on her hips, she serves him a look that would have you wincing if you were on the receiving end. Trevor doesn’t shrink away, rather enjoying himself. “Don’t even think about leaving, asshole. We need you here.”

Alfredo nods, looking as though he understands what you’re saying until he opens his mouth. “Well, if you insist.” He readjusts his sweatshirt, making sure his neck is completely engulfed by his red scarf. He hits you with a cheeky grin, lips hidden beneath the fabric. “But don’t pretend like we didn’t offer.”

“You didn’t offer!” you reject vehemently, “and you’re not even listening to us!”

Trevor looks offended, scoffing at the prospect while latching on to Alfredo’s arm - who’s equally insulted - and yanking open the door. “How dare you? We’re going to the tavern, you funky witch bitches, where our talents are appreciated.”

“They’re appreciated here,” wails Lauren, motioning to the sheer size of the task that’ll take over the night.

“Nope, we can tell when we’re not welcome,” interjects Alfredo, clutching his chest and pulling a pained expression. “C’mon Treyco, let’s get outta here.”

Trevor nods firmly, turning on his heels and storming out into the snow, yelping as the cold settles across his skin. Alfredo suddenly looks a lot more apprehensive, taking a moment before following with a hollar, “We’ll drink drink your share, don’t worry!”

“Oh really?” You laugh, watching them traipse through the garden on unsteady feet, wobbling with every hole they slip into. Knees hitting the ground, forcing laughter from their lungs and smiles across their faces. “What a generous offer!”

“You fucking know it!” yells Trevor heroically, beaming back to the lodge, “don’t forget the sacrifices we’ve made here today!” 

“Welp, they’re gone and I hate you.” Lauren’s voice doesn’t waver, certain in her statement as she closes the door after a moment, your friends having been swallowed in the night. “I hate you so damn much, Y/N. Do you have any idea how hard it was to carry all this shit back from the library?”

You smile, settling in the firelight cast across the livingroom floor, tea warm against your fingertips. “You made it home though, didn’t you?”

Lauren follows your lead, sighing into her seat. “Barely,” she snorts, “I nearly died.”

“Really?”

“Not at all. Right, where do you wanna start?” She motions to the left of you, battered books clinging to life and enough dust that your throat burns. “Over there we’ve got the handwritten journal of our ghosty friend, and over there we’ve got town records right the way up to the time her son ran Motbury.” She directs your attention to a collection of binders, surprisingly small in comparison to the amount of information you expected. “Not much, right?”

“Yeah,” you frown, flipping through the closest folder, only to be met with architectural plans and a few lackluster excerpts. You could take better notes in your sleep. “Lots of stuff about how he protected the town… That’s kinda really fucking weird. There’s nothing after that.”

She nods, hand running through her hair before she taps her cheeks a few times, determined to stay awake. It’s only once she’s settled and finished rubbing her eyes that she realises her coffee sits on the counter. She frowns. “And the night just got worse.” 

“What are you talking about?”

She motions to her cup, your gaze following the saddened expression she throws across the room. A flick of your wrist sees her mood brighten, concentration burning your palms and static in your fingers while the mug rattles excitedly against the bench. Another smooth motion sees her drink lift, your hand pulling the air like a long string until it reaches you. Across the carpet, threat of spilling mounting to an uncomfortable peak before gently coming to rest in front of Lauren. 

She grins, relieved when plucking it from your control and taking a sip. A sigh escapes into its depth, rumbling happily. “Oh yeah, that’s the good shit.”

“You’re welcome.”

She peers over the rim, already brightening. “Your Granddad would be so disappointed.  _ ‘Kids these days and not using their legs! Grumble grumble, I’m so old’. _ ” You cackle, her impression knitting her eyebrows together and flattening her lips into a thin line. The short, sharp jerks of her shoulders punctuate every grouchy exclamation, and a finger jams her glasses up the bridge of her nose so roughly you can practically hear them clatter against her skull. “What next, huh?  _ ‘Back in my day we punched each other for fun. Burnt women at the stake for friend-zoning us’ _ .”

“Stop,” you wheeze, putting your tea down before it can spill. Between laughter she flicks a spark into your cup, contents steaming once again. “Granddad was so old.”

“He knew Jesus, right?”

“He probably cursed Jesus for trespassing on the footpaths. That old fucker was the worst.”

“The worst,” she agrees firmly, snatching at a page and bringing it up to a settling expression. “Speaking of the worst, you got a light?” Lauren asks, straining at the handwriting she attempts to scan for the third time, squinting through her glasses. 

“I mean… you got health insurance?”

“In this country?” she scoffs, “hell no, why?”

“Well,” you start, rubbing your hands together, “I could give that light thing another go.”

Her eyes narrow critically, and Lauren shuffles further away. “That crap from the other night? That you scared the bear thing off with?”

“Almost bear, yeah.”

“No,” she rejects, “no no no. You’re gonna fucking shoot me.”

You roll your eyes, offended but completely understanding her lack of faith. “C’mon, it’ll be fine.”

It takes her a moment to reply, but she doesn’t seem any more convinced. “Have you been practicing?” 

Your slow response doesn’t fill her with confidence, her groan ruining your attempts to get her on side. “Nope. This’ll be a great time to practice.”

“I’m going to die,” she laments, slipping further in her seat. 

“You’re not going to die.”

“Yes I am, oh god. This is it. This is the end…” She sits back up, beaming eagerly. “Well, go on then. Least I’ll die cool.”

“Gimme a fucking minute, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. In your own time, but soon cus we’ve got shit to do.” 

“Don’t make me curse you out,” you murmur, attention already drifting. 

Staring at your hand, tracing the curves of silver scars and lost in the clusters of ink staining your palm like stars across a night sky, you start to remember. It’s small at first, the feeling. Gentle and timid, pinching in your chest. But warm, surprisingly. Nothing like the searing cold that has surged through your fingers and buckled your elbow. Nothing like the freezing desperation that’d seen seen it fountain from your being like a burst damn. 

Because you’re not afraid this time. 

And why would you be? Clinging to the sheer fact you’ve done this before, on an admittedly larger and uncontrollable scale, is all you need. You can feel it. Like the light is trapped between your ribs, uncertain, but undeniable. Almost like the warmth of the first sip of a hot drink after walking through the snow, comfort pooling in your chest and stretching throughout your limbs. The thick blankets that come along with winter, or the roaring of a well established fire. 

“You’re glowing.” 

Glancing up, Lauren is watching you attentively. Eyes glued to your shoulders, her expression caught in the moonlight emanating from your skin. You smile, and airy laugh accompanying your excitement. “I can’t believe this.” 

“You’re a night light.”

“Does it help?” you ask, shuffling closer to her to ward off the shadows the night is chasing across the documents.

She nods. “A little.”

The motion happens before you realise you’re doing it, focusing on the redirection of the light. It burns as it follows the lines of your veins, stinging at the wrist before it glows so brightly in your hand that you’re left squinting. A quick flick of your fingers disperses the light, scattering it towards the ceiling where it clings to the air. Suspended and glittering like stars caught by the roof. 

“How about that?”

“I - holy fuck! Y/N, this is amazing! You know what we should do?” You can’t quite tear your attention away from the small balls of light, questioning her logic through numb lips. “We should order dinner!”

You rock back, your smile so broad your cheeks hurts. “Fuck yes we should.”

“Can I get HSP?”

“Nope.” 

She slumps, groaning in a lackluster flail of limbs. “Ugh. What even is life?”

Tossing a journal at her, you grin. “I’m fucking kidding! Do you really think I’d live somewhere without HSP? I’m not a monster!”

“I want wine.”

“We can get wine.”

She thinks for a moment. “And whiskey.”

“And whiskey.”

  
  


-

  
  


“Looks like Ryan was right,” Lauren says eventually, feeling no need to hide her disappointment. She slumps in her seat, head resting on the couch while she shares her grievances with the ceiling. “We haven't learnt anything new. Gotta admit, your lumberjack lover is thorough. You and Michael may have figured out that the story is linked to all this, but this Turner person is useless.”

The weight on your shoulders grows heavier, anxiousness scratching against your ribs. Frustration clinging to the hair your force from your face, scalp lined with the effort to sooth yourself. A swig of whiskey doesn’t help. “There has to be something, Lol, there’s a truth to every story somewhere. We can't just give up.”

She bristles through a sip from her glass, though barely. “There's only so many times we can read about some woman and her rambling tea habits. I mean, fuck, who drinks this sort of shit?”

“I do,” you reply, offended and rosy cheeked. 

“You're the only one.”

Then it hits you, knocking the air from your lungs with enough force that, if you were standing, you'd buckle into the realisation. Lauren sees the shift, watching the energy that had been draped across your shoulders dissipate. Breaking away and fracturing into golden shards as you rock onto your knees. 

You're eager, enough to have her waking up from the sleepy alcohol stupor she's almost ready to let take her. “You're right, that's it!”

“What’s it?”

“The tea - the bloody tea thing! You said that I'm the only one that drinks that sort of shit.”

Her brow furrows, struggling to follow as you start rifling through the pile of information. “You and Turner, yeah.”

You emerge beaming, clutching the journal Lauren had tossed aside in disgust. “And what did you mean by shit?”

“What?”

“Type of tea, Lol. What makes up the tea?”

“Herbs and weird flowers and that kinda gross stuff.”

You nod, not even bothering to correct her on the subtle act of tea making, or calling out her strict reliance on camomile or sugarless coffee. Instead you're smiling, flipping through the pages. “Why?”

“Why what?” She pulls a face. “I swear I am going to kill you. It’s too late for this shit.”

“Why do I use those ingredients?”

“Cus they're fucking awful and you hate yourself? C’mon, Y/N. Just tell me!”

Fingers drum against the file, incessant while you stare. When she doesn’t respond your eyes roll. “Witches drink tea.”

Lauren’s face goes blank, eyes widening and eyebrows disappearing beneath her unruly bangs. Her mouth opens with a small pop, hands starting to flap as excitement sees her bouncing. “Witches drink tea!”

You smack the folder to punctuate the point, rocketing to your knees and shuffling over to her as fast as you can. Thrusting your file under her nose, you tap at the margin lined with tea recipes. “Exactly! Witches drink tea. This is the type of stuff I drink when I’m feeling paranoid.” You pull it back, flipping through the pages. “Look, she’s got teas for calming, teas for sleep, teas for cleansing, teas for all emotional healing-”

“That’s crazy!” Lauren exclaims, yanking the closest free journal over and scanning for herself. “The tea shit is everywhere.” She snaps the book shut, moving on to another that’s exactly the same. “Holy fuck.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe it’s taken us this long to figure that out. It all looked normal to me,” you manage, lowering the text into your lap and sitting back down, fingers tangled in your hair while you stare out the window. The cold screams back, faint whispers of snow caught in the lights glowing outside. “It’s kinda sorta really fucking weird. You reckon she was a proper witch, or that she was just really good with tea?”

Lauren makes a weird noise, shrugging. “I dunno, I’m going with no, though? Tradition carries a lot of weight, and recipes and tea properties are used by people without magic all the time. Turner hasn’t done anything remotely witchy that I’ve noticed. Shame the son didn’t keep any journals. There’s nothing from him in this pile. You’d have thought that if your mum was actually a witch you’d want to write some cool stuff down.” 

“Moira was incredibly thorough... Her whole life up until her disappearance is here. All we’ve got on the son - oh god, what’s his name?”

“We don’t have a name.”

“Great,” you groan, “brilliant. Fucking fantastic. All we’ve got on no-name-Turner is stuff from his mum and the other crap from the town plans before it all just stops. There’s not even any mention of markings on doorways and stuff.”

She nods, frustrated and exhausted. “Great. We’ve got tea recipes and a man that just disappeared along with his record keeping skills-”

A loud crash cuts her off, the rattle of a lock and smack of a door knob hitting the wall followed by a quick succession of frantic footsteps pounding down the hall. But it’s nothing in comparison to the roarious laughter. Alfredo and Trevor stumble through the door arm in arm, tripping over their feet and bouncing against the entryway. Silly beams split across their faces when you and Lauren glance up, Alfredo breaking away and collapsing on the couch, somehow managing to shove his hand cheekily across your face in the process. The surprise has your concentration shattering, along with the orbs of light you’d managed to keep strong up until this point. Though the alcohol had seen them lower, most of the light having hovered around your elbows rather than dusting the ceiling as they originally had. They dissipate quickly now, dropping the room into the firelight.

Trevor wastes no time in launching forward, letting his momentum carry him into Lauren’s lap despite her half hearted protests, curling up in her arms and determined not to move. “Hey there baby,” he muses sleepily, lost in the smile she presses to his forehead. “Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” she laughs, running her fingers through his hair, “not at all.”

“It was actually really nice,” you confirm, leaning against Alfredo’s shoulder, “I haven’t had peace and quiet in a long time.”

“Nahh,” Alfredo groans into the couch cushions, turning to face you. His expression crushes, balling into something so comical that you can’t hold in the sniggers. “You missed us. You always miss us.”

“Shut up,” you groan happily, batting away the hand he uses to mess up your hair. “You shut the hell up Fredo, or I’m kicking your ass to the curb.” 

“Fine,” he exclaims, sitting up suddenly, “but we made friends, Y/N. New friends. Better friends. One of them was a cop-”

“A drunk cop!” Trevor chimes in too close to Lauren’s ear, causing her to bite back a wince. 

“A drunk cop!” Alfredo agrees, swinging his arm around. “And there was a coffee man with this… this beautiful hair. And a British person! I’ve never seen a British person more English than he was.”

“Made up words,” coos Trevor, flailing in Lauren’s arms, “made up words he did!”

“He did! You know what?” Alfredo glares, the expression not quite holding the same accusations they would if he were in the least bit sober. “I’m gone go stay with Gavin. Ma man will look after me.” He moves to stand, swaying as he swipes one of the journals from the top of a pile, squinting at the spidery writing like he’s forgotten how to read. “Maybe I’ll take him this damn book as some firewood, huh? Huh, Y/N? How’d you like dat? Fucking kick my ass to the curb, you animal. You… wait - what is this? This thing that I’m holding?”

Lauren doesn’t miss a beat, smiling sweetly into his confusion. “Alfredo, that’s a book.”

He blinks hard at her, leaning into the motion and holding his eyes closed and eyebrows together for far too long. “I know what a book is.”

Trevor nods into the crook of Lauren’s neck, nuzzling into her like he’s desperate for warmth. She spares him an unsympathetic pat on the head, giving his hand a firm squeeze. Trevor can’t hide his grin. “Sauce can’t read.”

“I can read!” Alfredo wails dejectedly at his drunk friend, offended. Returning to the page that seems to have insulted him so much, he jabs a finger to it’s margins. “I’m talkin’ bout this crazy chick. She’s as weird as you. Yes, you, Y/N. Look. Look, are you looking? Looky. C’mon, just look! See? She’s does the same crazy shit that you do!”

Only minorly outraged, you press a disgruntled frown to your face. “Crazy shit? Rude.”

He pays you no mind, continuing to sway while he fails to grab your hand - not once, but twice - before pulling you unwillingly to your feet. Gripping his elbow to ensure he doesn’t clatter to the ground, you make sure he’s steady before peering at the passage he keeps indicating too. “Well, look,” Alfredo starts, “this bitch be doin’ these weird ass symbol things that you do.” A clumsy finger drags down the side of the page, gliding over ink splattered and familiar illustrations. “See? You see dat? Look at dat… you looking? Dawg, just look-” 

“Yeah,” you reply, cutting him off. “Yeah, I’m looking. I didn’t, wait - how didn’t I notice these? This changes everything.” Your attention breaks away from the page, settling on Lauren. She watches you, equally shocked. “This means that Moira was a witch.”

“Course she was a witch!” reprimands Alfredo, “your lumberjack man even told you it was a witch hunt.”

Lauren scowls, struggling around Trevor until eventually standing. He doesn’t want to follow, but reluctantly does; gripping the couch like a lifeline. “Yeah, but the people in witch hunts weren’t actually witches. They were just poor women that we’re caught up in stupid superstitious bullshit. And Turner didn’t do any of the usual shit people used to accuse witches of.”

“So that means she can’t be a witch?” Trevor questions, paling slightly with the churn of his stomach. “How closed minded.”

Alfredo nods eagerly in agreement. “You two see this shit every day, so course you didn’t recognise it as weird. Us normal fucks don’t. This bitch is a witch!”

A hand you can’t deem to be excited or nervous shifts through your hair, brushing away the exhaustion of a long night. You stare at Alfredo, watching him vibrate proudly. “You’re kidding,” you manage around an incredulous laugh, “we spent hours doing this. Hours! We found the tea thing, but we couldn’t pin that to a witch properly. And then you come stumbling in here and do it in 2 minutes?!”

Lauren grins. “That means I can go to bed!”

Your face falls. “It means we’ve got a lot of stuff to do-”

“Bed!” she reiterates, snatching Trevor’s hand and making her way towards the stairs without a backwards glance. “C’mon, Trev, we’re celebrating.”

Alfredo watches them go, offering a clumsy wave to his friend before turning back to you. He looks awkward, pleading. “Please, I don’t wanna celebrate.” 

“Hurtful, but mutual,” you agree. His face brightens in relief. “You want a hot chocolate with marshmallows?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, scampering towards the couch and curling up on the cushions. “By the fire with blankets.” 

“Done,” you laugh, collecting a bunch and unfurling them over him, watching his face gleefully reappear from beneath the throws. He’s grinning, cheeks threatening to split. Childhood innocence oozes from the expression, eyes sparkling in the light. “We’ll watch Brooklyn Nine Nine?”

You didn’t think it were possible, but he smiles even wider. Wiggling in his spot, he can’t hold in the excited squeal that follows you into the kitchen, sound lost in the sound of the kettle and clatter of cups. “Y/N, you’re my gurl!” 

Smiling, you don’t have to turn around to know that he’s already drifted off to sleep. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realise Ao3 wasn't up to date, I'm sorry guys! Tumblr was scheduled and I completely lost track. I'm going to be uploading the next couple of chapters over the coming days, and a new part will exist very soon!

The smell comes as a surprise, arguably the first of many for the morning. It draws you out of a night loaded with snow, easing the ache of fingers that had clawed at the banks you’d been buried beneath in your dreams. The tensions in your neck fade with the burns of exhaustion and an evening loaded with laughter, wine, and a few bottles of fire whiskey. With it comes the warmth of your comforter, the feeling of sheets against bare feet and weight of food in your stomach. 

But you don’t open your eyes immediately. Lost in the sounds of your breathing and the sweet smell of cinnamon. Of stewing apples. Of the drumming of your heart. Captivated by the sting of your nose as the window says goodmorning, and the overwhelming emptiness on the other side of your bed. 

Their voices, however, have other ideas. The booming laughter accompanies your journey out of the bedroom, peering from the catwalk into the busy kitchen. But it’s more than that. The house is alive. The lodge teeming with the life you’d hadn’t realised you’d been pleading for until it rushes beneath you. Infested with joy and red cheeks and coffee and the remnants of hangovers. Watching, you can’t bring yourself to descend the stairs. Too busy indulging in the small moment of peace. Of everything you’d ever wanted and never thought you’d have again. 

And it’s like you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding the whole time you’ve been in Motbury. Like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders and you’re standing taller. Glowing. Proud. 

 

Finally home.

 

“Oi,” Lauren calls as she glances up, expression lined with the thick baby pink tortoise shell rims of her glasses. She catches you smiling, jabbing a commanding and playful wooden spoon in your direction. “Don’t think you can get out of kitchen duty. Get your ass down here.” 

You do as you’re told, grinning into the morning greeting Alfredo calls from his safe spot on the couch, determined to keep out of the way. You doubt he’s moved since last night, the number of blankets piled across him telling you just as much. Curled beneath the throws, he’s careful when juggling his drink, something suspiciously smelling of chocolate wafting from the mug. And as you draw closer you can’t help but laugh, any sign of hot chocolate having been buried beneath the mountain of marshmallows you’d promised the night prior. 

Trevor, however, is braver than Alfredo. Slower, too, battling with his hangover.  _ Stupid _ , Lauren insists when you take your place at the island, dragging the cup of tea they’ve prepared over.  _ Stupid and sexy. _

Your nose crinkles. “Gross, it’s too early in the morning for that kinda talk.”

She laughs, stirring a saucepan loaded with apples, cinnamon, butter and sugar. “You’re just grumpy because you haven’t had a cup of tea yet.”

“How dare you?” 

“Drink up, I refuse to talk to you until you’ve had your first hit.” She nods to the cup in your hands, liquid uncomfortably tepid against your fingertips. 

“But…” you pout, pushing it back towards her. “But it’s cold.” 

Lauren’s eyebrows raise, the feeling of Trevor’s hand lightly brushing her waist to lean around her seeing a smile peel across her lips. “So? You know where the microwave is. It took me 10 minutes to find the fucking bathroom this morning.”

“Lauren. You are a microwave. A microwave with legs.” 

Trevor grins, chin coming to rest on top of her head, arms winding around her. “Y/N’s got you there.”

Lauren tries to glare up at her boyfriend, but he doesn’t release his hold. “Who’s fucking side are you on?”

He shrugs. “I’m on the side of whoever is most likely to kill me.” 

“He got a point!” yells Alfredo from his bundle, head popping up from the back of the couch. “Y/N can shoot lightning outta her damn hands now.”

“It’s not lightning!” you reject vehemently. 

“She’s right, it’s the lack of caffeine that she’ll kill you with,” argues Lauren, managing to hook a finger into Trevors ribs - man yelping and scampering away with a cheeky grin she returns. “Not some weird monster hunter explosion bullshit.”

“Hey,” you grumble, “we don’t even know it was a monster. It was probably a bear.”

“It was probably a monster,” Lauren interrupts, giving you a knowing look. “Moira was a witch, so this place is paranormal. What’s to say that other creatures don’t live around here?”

You frown. “We don’t have any proof that it was something besides a bear.”

“You know it wasn’t a bear.”

“Fine, fine!” you sigh begrudgingly, “but that doesn’t mean it was a demon or a monster or something.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” says Lauren, placing a palm over the top of your cold cup and holding it there for a moment. “You still shot the shit out of it.” 

“What was that all about, anyway?” asks Trevor, eyes refusing to leave the faint glow of Lauren’s outstretched hand. “I’ve never seen you do anything like that before.”

“Neither,” admits Alfredo, finally struggling into the kitchen, blankets still over his shoulders. 

A flick of her wrist and the liquid inside the cup stirs, Lauren passing back your cup now brimming with steaming tea. 

“It’s kinda… like, a new development.” 

“No kidding,” replies Trevor, fist jammed in the length of his hair. “Did it hurt?”

“Sorta.” You shrug, sipping your drink. “It was all cold and stuff. Like i’d been outside for too long without a coat. I dunno. I made it happen again by remembering how it felt.”

Lauren glances at your hands, fingers cut with scars and stained with ink. “You’re getting better at controlling it. After last night I doubt you’d accidently kill me. I’m kinda jealous, though. All I can do is make popcorn. You’re a fucking light show now.  _ Y/N: part time witch, part time demon blaster. Full time bitch _ .”

“I’m… honored to wear such a prestigious title. I just wish I knew what this energy shit is.”

But Trevor looks positively offended. “Excuse you? How fucking dare you - don’t make me fight you on this Laurie.”

“You’ve got one hell of a party trick, Lauren,” offers Alfredo earnestly, “remember that time you made popcorn in some assholes shoes at a party cus he tried to flirt with Y/N?” 

“Exactly, what ma twin said. It’s damn good popcorn, baby girl. Don’t insult the food of the gods.” 

She shakes her head defiantly. “Cheese is the food of the gods.”

“That’s it!” Trevor exclaims, holding up loose fists and bending into his stand, bobbing. “Put ‘em up, asshole. It’s go time.”

“Oh? You wanna take this outside? Huh?” Lauren beams. “I could fuck you up. I’ll hex your fucking face off.”

He stands abruptly. “All I heard was ‘I could fuck you’.”

“Stop, stop, stop, gross. Ew. Not in front of my salad,” you groan theatrically, covering your eyes. 

Alfredo’s quick to hide beneath the blankets, a quick swoop seeing him disappear. “Please, no. I’m too innocent!”

“Oh, like Y/N hasn’t christened every room in this house with that loverboy lumberjack.” Lauren’s laughing, cheeks still red and fingers combing through Trevor’s hair. His temple rests against her shoulder, utterly content by her side. 

“Excuse you? I would never.”

“Must be fun working for a boss like that. The bonus packages must be huge.”

“Lauren.”

“I bet Ryan just loves giving raises.”

“Lauren, c’mon-”

“Must be hard work, though…”

“LAUREN.”

“Hey.” She holds up her hands in surrender, grin so wide you’re surprised her cheeks don’t split. “It’s not my fault he’s good with his hands.”

“That’s it!” you yelp, jabbing a finger at the giggling woman. “Get back on that fucking plane.” 

“You’d die without me. Now, stop distracting me with your lumberjack fantasies-”

You suck in an offended breath. “This is your fault-”

“And I’m going back to my fucking point. Maybe all this light stuff means you’re experiencing witch puberty? Like, body and energy changes. We talked about it the other week, remember? Maybe, because you were scared, you shot some pent up witch puberty around. This area is super magic, the realities pressing together or something might be making your powers funny?”

Everyone looks at the woman who’s returned to the apples, turning off the heat and pulling an empty bowl towards her. 

“Witch puberty?” Alfredo turns the words over in his mouth, like he can’t quite figure out what he’s supposed to be imagining. He drags himself from the couch a moment later, bringing his blankets over to the stool and settling in beside you.

“Yeah - hey, Trev, baby? Would you head over to the cupboard and get me the flour please? Thanks - but yeah, nah; witch puberty sounds like a thing.”

Alfredo doesn’t buy it. “Is it actually a thing?”

Lauren shrugs. “I have no idea. Sounds cool, though.” 

“Wow,” you grin, drowning your smile in your cup. “You were almost helpful.” 

“Hey.” Her eyes narrow, blue caught between thick lashes, “I’m making you breakfast. Play nice.”

Dipping your head, you kick a sniggering Alfredo. “Yes Mum.” 

Her nose wrinkles. “Before I was brutally insulted in my own home - oh my god.” Lauren stumbles, knocking the counter as a crash sounds behind her. Then chorus of apologies follows the bag of flour to the floor, accompanying the drop of your head into your hands. “What the fuck was that?”

Alfredo can’t breathe. Laughing so hard his cheeks turn pink and eyes begin to water, your own giggles dripping between your fingers.  But it's nothing in comparison to the red Lauren turns, peels of glee joining the tears streaming down her cheeks. She clutches at her side, looking like the island pressed against her back is all that keeps her standing. 

“Trev, baby. Are you alright?” She manages between gasps, watching her boyfriend slip dejectedly to his knees, loud, comical groans slapping against the floor. “Ka pai, my beautiful bastard. Ka pai.”

“Ka what now?” he wails, completely coated. 

 

Something in his expression has laughter bursting your seams, slipping from the seat and knocking against the floor. Alfredo follows soon after, the pair of you a lock of limbs and flurry of giggles. 

 

“It’s Maori for good job, which is what that wasn’t.” 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now completely up to date and the new chapters will start rolling out soon! Thank you all for being so patient with me and continuing to enjoy the story, it means a lot <3

“So,” starts Trevor around a mouthful of breakfast, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else as opposed to standing up, or even awake. “What did you guys learn last night? Does this Turner woman being a witch change anything?”

You consider this thoroughly, having not spared the concept the time of day. Munching slowly, you try to gather your thoughts. Confusion plays havok in the silence. Concepts fleeting with the speed of a panicked and overexerted mind. 

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Your admittance is met with frowns, but you’re quick to explain. “We went into this looking to learn more about the ghost story. To figure out if the tale of the Widow of the Woods was relevant or even applicable to a copycat killer, but… I dunno. We’ve learnt more than I wanted to. A copycat killer is a distinct possibility, but what if there’s something else going on, too? After all, the widow was a witch, and that her son had fortified Motbury against something.”

“Against her?” Alfredo pries. 

Lauren shrugs. “No fucking clue,” she says distastefully, “we don’t have any proof, which sucks arse. That’s where the ghost story takes over. What we do know is that Moira disappeared, and her son was really bad at keeping journals. Great with plans, but shitty with everything else. Anyway, knowing she’s a witch could be as normal as unimportant as knowing her hair was brown.”

Trevor glances over. “Her hair was brown?”

Lauren pulls a face. “How the hell should I know?” 

Alfredo groans into his food, pushing it around dejectedly. “Why couldn’t it just be easy?” 

“You’re telling me.” You sigh unhappily, grimacing into a sip of tea. “God, I’m more confused than when we started. It would be so much easier if we were dealing with a normal killer, or maybe something creepy. At least then I wouldn’t be overloaded with all this information that cancels each other out.” You hold out your hands, mimicking your failed efforts to juggle the two worlds you’re tied between. “This fucking sucks. What if it’s not a murderer after all?”

Lauren makes an apologetic noise, reaching over and giving your hands a squeeze. “Can’t really tell Detective asshole that the Lumberjack of Motbury might not be a real person. Can you imagine?  _ ‘Hey, the man you’re looking for could be something even worse than a person because there was a witch here once, which means the entity doorway is pretty strong. Weird, right? Irrelevant, possibly? But I just wanted to you know that it’s looking more and more like a monster is killing kids, so you can’t actually do anything about it.’ _ See?” She frowns, returning to tracing the rim of her cup with an unhappy finger. “It wouldn’t go down well.” 

“He doesn’t even believe in witches,” you grumble, forehead bending to touch the table, faintly aware of Alfredo patting you comfortingly on the back. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Well,” Alfredo offers, “maybe all ya gotta do is rule out the paranormal bit? Maybe find out what the thing you shot in the woods was, and if it’s involved. Go from there or sumthin’?” 

Trevor agrees. “That would work. Look, you’re trying to divide yourself between realities. It’s too much. Try and rule one out, rather than bouncing back and forth? Prioritise and all that.”

You look up, taking in their help with welcome relief. The counter taints the underside of your chin, cold seeping into your jaw. “That… makes sense.” 

He smiles like he knows. “Where do you want to start?”

“What?”

“What makes this killer a person?” 

Thinking, you try to fight through the haze of leftover whiskey and a semi sleepless night. “The knocking, um… and the fact that the kids go willingly with the person. Like they trust them?”

“True, true,” affirms Alfredo, nodding, “I ain’t goin’ with no monster even as a grown ass man. I ain’t into that kinda weird creepy shit.”

Lauren narrows her eyes. “You’re best friends with witches.”

His eyes widen. “Oh fuck, you right.”

Shaking your head, you try and keep the conversation on track. “But whoever it is... they’re smart. It’s almost like the whole abduction thing is planned out.” 

Lauren jumps on board. “What about the paranormal bit?”

“The markings,” you reply immediately, “we don’t know what makes the markings. On the bodies or the houses.”

Lauren quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t know what makes the markings yet because the lab report hasn’t come back. Stop jumping to spooky conclusions.”

You ignore her, stuck on a paranoid trajectory. “And the creature from the forest-”

“Nope,” interjects Alfredo, “don’t think about that. You don’t know if it’s important yet, you know? Could just be some hairy good boy wanderin’ around.”

You falter. “Well… okay. Um… there’s the fact that whatever it is attacks during a snowstorm that people generally can’t survive.” 

“That’s possible, I guess,” Trevor allows, “but they could always be someone dressed up really warm. So, which do you think is more likely?”

“I don’t know,” you admit sullenly, “you’re making me think I’m paranoid for considering paranormal shit…. but the major factors of the case could have been carried out by either. Kids are turning up without their heads, for fuck sakes. Serial killers do that all the time, but it doesn’t make sense for a monster. And it started out with livestock, and killers have been known to take their anger out on animals first. But… Ugh. It just-” You make more violent gestures, screwing up your expression and hands forming fists, trying to force your thoughts into something that can be remotely understood. “None of this sits right with me. So many have gone missing and no one has seen anything. No tracks, no glimpses of a person - there’s no way a person wouldn’t make some kind of mess in the snow.” 

“You won’t know until you get more information, Y/N. You’re running yourself in circles. I’d focus on the human aspect, honestly,” says Lauren, finishing her plate before filling it up with more bacon. She sucks on her fork thoughtfully. “Most of the horrors against mankind are committed by man himself.” 

Silence falls across the table, everyone watching Lauren in awe. She doesn’t seem to notice, returning to the plate she’s already emptied as though she’s forgotten, frowning. Trevor almost laughs. His arm falls across her shoulders, pulling her close. “Thanks for that, Ghandi.” 

She scowls. “Fuck off.”

 

-

 

The morning dwindles into lazy chatter. Plates clatter quietly together, cups clinking as they’re juggled to the sink. A sleepy warmth settles over shoulders, heavy until people slip from their seats and start to move. Limbs creaking like the branches outside, battered by the wind. Running water washes away the hangovers infesting the room, the gentle scrape of a cloth against dishes following the bodies drifting to the couches. No one seems to notice when the voices stop. The crackle of a stoked fire takes over the silence, the sound of socks shuffling into the living room the most sound anyone is willing to make. 

Faces bury into cushions not long after. Bodies curling into balls and tossed in blankets. You make sure Alfredo is as covered in a fleece as he possibly can be before burrowing into the small nook by his knees on the other side of the sofa. Your temple hits the arm rest before you register Alfredo sitting back up, repositioning his blankets over the tight bundle your limbs form and settling back down. Weighted eyelids bring darkness, a mumbled thanks lost in the fabric brushing your lips. The feeling of Alfredo’s foot rubbing against your calf only makes you sleepier, your response clumsy but appreciated. 

You don’t see Lauren - your eyes are already closed. You can, however, hear her crossing the room. You most definitely hear her bump against the coffee table, the soft cusses falling down her front and littering themselves across the rug. The sound of a blanket scratching across the armchair makes you smile, her clothes catching as she brings her legs up. Knees to her chest, a foot hanging across the arm, and a cloak of warmth tossed across her front. It doesn’t take long for her to drift. 

It takes you a little longer. The smell of stewed apples still clings in your hair, the scent of cinnamon scattered across your skin like freckles lulling you into a world verging on sleep. A place where every movement is soft and slow, warm and tight as it engulfs you in it’s arms. Trevor clattering away in the kitchen soon fades into the background, lost in the wind and snow thumping against the window and dancing on the the sills. 

  
  


-

  
  


The knock pounding against the front door is overwhelmingly rude, your mind being pulled towards consciousness after what seems like no time at all. Strained eyelids flutter, greeting a fire that has smouldered into silence and a room caught in the light of afternoon. 

The other bodies around the space stir, but not enough to seem willing to greet whoever is hammering a fist against the door. You let out a groan, feeling it push against the couch cushioning your cheek. A stiff neck sees you wince, glaring at the entrance to the lodge before another knock sounds. It takes some convincing but eventually you stand up. Carefully detaching yourself from Alfredo before wobbling forward and slipping on a pair of boots, a gust of cold billowing around your ankles as you crack open the door and slip outside with a coat. 

A familiar lopsided smile catches you off guard. Bright against the crisp snow, the snigger curling across Ryan’s lips encouraging one of your own. He draws you in almost immediately, the dampness of his red flannel clothes a worthwhile sacrifice for the warmth of his embrace. 

You can feel his smile in your hair. “Rough night?” 

You laugh, sluggish in your retreat. Your limbs refuse to cooperate, clumsy as you force them through the extra layer of clothing. “You could say that. Whiskey and wine results in a killer hangover.”

Ryan pulls a face. “You poor thing.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“Good,” he beams, “because you’re not going to get it.”

“Oh?” Your eyes roll, sleepy mood defrosting the longer you stand with him on the porch, Ryan at the bottom of the steps while you adorn the top. It’s pleasant, giving you the opportunity to see eye to eye with the man. Your forearms come to rest on his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair curling at the nape of his neck. “Then if you’re not here to look after me, what do you want?”

“I thought I’d visit to invite my dear girlfriend to come with me and see something impossibly cool before dinner tonight.” Ryan leans into you, hands on your hips and a dopey smile on his face.  He savours the title, as though the term was endearing in of itself, coming closer to press his affections against your jawline. “If she’d like, that is.”

You grin through the heat dusting your skin, brushing away the stubborn lock of hair that always seems so determined to fall into his eyes as he pulls back. Resting your palm on his cheek, it stings with the cold he’d picked up on the walk over, warming with your touch. “Is this a sex thing?” 

“Nope.” He presses his hand against yours, fingers lacing together before he’s suddenly moving. Dragging you down the steps towards his truck with surprise being his only leverage. “C’mon, Y/N,” Ryan practically sings, “come and see, it’s in the forest.”

You’re laughing. Breathless and stumbling to find your footing and catch up with him. “Are you sure this isn’t a sex thing? It sounds like a sex thing.”

“It sounds like you want it to be a sex thing.”

“Would it be wrong to be kinda disappointed if it wasn’t?”

He grins back at you. “Yes, now come on. I found it yesterday and I really want to show you. We’ll cut down some supplies while we’re there.”

  
  


-

  
  


“See!”   
  
“Why… why am I looking at a stripped animal skull?”

Not that you mind in the slightest. On the contrary, if you hadn’t come across such a thing in your travels, having clambered through the snow determined to swallow trees one section of trunk at a time, with moss taking over the world and an unsettling silence making the dark spaces of the forest it’s home, you’d have been disappointed. 

Everything was still from the moment you had first stepped foot into the trees. Past the line that divided the civilization of Motbury from the tranquil calm of another world. Icicles like spindly fingers cling to tree branches, moving ever so gently with every gentle push of the wind. Creaking joints with sharpened nails that catch in your hair and tug on your clothes, begging you you to stay with them. To keep them company and listen to the tails they weave in their unusual chimes. 

Bark soldiers surround you on all sides, husks blackened with rot, skin peeled back with the scurrying of insects working tirelessly on its surface. Moss patches the gashes torn in their bodies, padding the wounds with deep greens and the occasional flash of thriving fungus flourishing in the little sun that filters through the inconsistent canopy. Gnarled knots of wood breech at odd angles, distorted in the swirl of snow and pull of age. As though even the trees can’t bear the weight of what they hide, shoulders popped from sockets and knees swollen. 

Stones and debris break free of the blanket of snow like islands out at sea. Froth crashing against their shorelines, surfaces slick with ice. Leaves, crushed and trampled, shipwreck on the ocean of white, some frozen and others already lost to decay. Sinking in the tide that continues to pile hungrily atop whatever lies in its path. Devouring all evidence of life to leave the world with nothing but a large, empty and blank slate. 

Ryan stands to your left, a step or so back from the position you’ve wandered to. His eyes burrow into your back, nestling between your shoulder blades while you consider the structure of bone. Clean as it is, the incredible size of the skull stands out against the stark white it sits on, creamy and warm despite the life it lacks. Sharp angles and deepening holes work together to form something familiar, but its alien presence in such an ethereal place nags at all those who come across it.

“Cus it’s cool,” Ryan mumbles in response to your question. You don’t have to turn to know a hand works through his hair, fingers rubbing worrisomely at the back of his neck. “And, well… Jeremy isn’t talking to me, and I wanted to show someone.”   
  
Your lips tug into a broad smile, one that you toss at Ryan’s apprehensively waiting figure, nervous for your response. “Sweet.” 

His demeanour cracks into something brighter once he sees your eagerness, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I know! Look, it’s huge! And no sign of the body either, even though the kill is fresh. Isn’t that weird?” He pulls a face, voice becoming a whisper. “It’s like a murder mystery.  _ Spooky _ .”   
  
You laugh him off, taking a few steps closer and crouching down, knees compacting in the snow. “Or a stray animal.”   
  
He follows your lead, joining you in the banks. He’s still eager, motioning to the skull and the lines tracing it’s structure. “Nah, see? Look at these grooves.” His finger follows one of the hollows. “Animals aren’t that precise, especially not when something’s struggling. Isn’t this cool?”


	26. Chapter 26

The skull stares at you. It’s black empty sockets screaming with a loneliness that is not only striking, but fearful. Like the creature it once was continues to lament over its last moments alive. Jaw dislocated and limp, but cries so loud they’re deafening. 

Ryan is right, the remnants of the animal before you hadn’t fallen to an ordinary predator. 

The grooves carved into it’s features wander like footpaths traipsed through familiarity, smooth and deliberate when unwrapping the skin from bone. Intelligent. Not clusters of claw marks in sets of threes and fours, and not the aftermath of clumsy teeth trying to keep a hold - but created with a precision that you just can’t place.

Can’t place, at least, until an outstretched finger touches the bone. All at once the base of your skull is left searing, a prickling pain that glides smoothly up the centre of your head, right over until coming to sting at the bridge of your nose. Along with it comes a heat that circles your neck, the hollow of your throat closing with the pressure of unseen fingers. 

“Fuck!” You recoil instantly, shuddering and hoping to pass the discomfort off as a reaction to the cold. The word slips from your lips before you can catch a breath, Ryan placing a cautionary hand against your lower back to stop you from toppling out of the crouch you’re folded into. “You’re right, this isn’t an animal… But why wouldn’t whoever it is take the head?”

“Y/N, come on.” Ryan gives you a concerned look. “Why’re you freaking out? I was kidding about the murder mystery thing. It’s probably just left over from a camper who needed a good meal.”

“In this weather?”

He doesn’t have a response. 

Letting the hand he has against your back guide you into sitting, your legs guard the sides of the skull. You can’t help following the grooves; pressing their image against the memories you have of those adorning the window frames of Motbury, and decorating the bodies you’re now too familiar with. 

“Why,” you ask again, reaching out to the bone again and pulling it into your lap, “would someone meticulously remove the head of a creature, skin the skull, and not take it with them? Surely a hunter wouldn’t chop off and clean the head before taking the body away. That doesn’t make sense.” 

He struggles, uncertain of what answer you might possibly want. Taking the skull from you, Ryan turns it over in his hands, examining the clean separation that had seen it removed from the spine in the dimming evening light. “Well,” he says, “maybe he didn’t need it.” 

 

-

 

The feeling of cobblestone pounds against the soles of your feet. Hard and aching in the cold. Bitter with every slap of your shoes as you run. The orange glow of streetlights trace the path you carve through the town, chasing the shadows you leave behind and playing in your hair. Scampering between your legs and leaping across the stone you bound over. Glinting against the black ice that has already managed to trip you twice, ground kissing the skin it’s left bruised across your hip and thigh. 

Ryan’s confusion still rings in your ears. His alarmed expression, of which you had left in the snow as you’d rocketed to your feet and started moving, haunts the darkened spaced between houses and shop fronts. 

_ “What, Y/N? What’s wrong - wait, where’re you going? Y/N, slow down. Y/N-” _

He’d snatched out, crumpling to his knees as you’d darted away. 

Instead of explaining, you’d thrown him an incoherent response and reminder for him to join dinner that night with nothing else on your mind besides racing thoughts and a need to find Detective Dooley. To hurl definitive evidence at his feet and demand that he acknowledge the grooves that match those found clinging to buildings. To force him to address the links exposed by the timeline you and Michael had slaved over. To make him see, once and for all, that the removal of the head and the slaughter of animals oh so long ago has to mean something. It just had to. 

 

_ It had to. _

 

The skull, minor in its existence, brings the three factors they’d been scratching their heads over together with clumsy a bow. Solidifying the concept of a copycat killer so much so that Jeremy will be unable to argue, and parading the fact that that whoever had been killing livestock hadn’t upgraded to children, but had kept a clear line between those he hunts. One for food, and one for fun. 

It isn’t much, but it consumes you. Taking over your being and vibrating in your limbs, stretching tight across your icy cheekbones. But it’s more than the relief of a definitive copycat that spurs you on. Ryan’s comment had stirred something inside you. Flipped a switch and brought blinding possibilities you hadn’t yet considered.

 

_ If the killer didn’t take the skulls of animals because he didn’t need them or want them - he must have had a reason for collecting the heads that he does.  _

 

Your rampant thoughts, along with your being, collide into the figure in front of you. So dizzy in your mind that it takes you a moment to register the shock, the man is already grunting and skirting past. Swallowed again by the night. A shake of your head sees the panic dislodge and recognition take its place. 

“Jeremy?” you call, waving a hand above your head and stumbling after him. “Hey, wait up. You’re just who I’m looking for.”

He doesn’t. Instead his head tucks deeper into his coat, shoulders hunched. The quickness of his pace is hard to match, but you manage.

"Slow down, J, I need to talk to you," you plead, catching his arm. But he still doesn't stop, shaking free and powering on into the snow. Recoiling, stung, you jam your hands into you pockets. "Are you kidding me? C’mon man, stop messing around. This is important."

“Then why don't you go and tell Ryan?”

The words burn, lashing out and leaving your skin raw.

“Excuse me?” you demand faintly, “what does Ryan have to do with anything?”

"I just figured," he starts, finally facing you with an expression set in stone, "that considering how close you've gotten, he's all you need."

“I'm trying to talk to you about the case, Detective. You know, the one where kids are dying? And you think now's a good time to go digging around in my personal life?”

"Why not?" he asks hollowly, and you take a step back. “Why shouldn't I treat you like everyone else in this town? I’d be covering all the bases like you want me to.”

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy!” you snap, infuriated at the man who cowers from your anger for a brief moment. “What the fuck is your problem? Just because you fancy Ryan doesn’t mean you get to be an ass to me!”

“Fancy Ryan?” He almost laughs, but stops himself, instead settling for bewilderment. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Stop it.” Your eyes narrow at his defence, in no mood for his denials. A sharp gesture of your hand cuts his confusion, letting it fall noisily to the floor. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” You’re seething, body desperate to pace and yet feet remaining rooted to the cold, frozen ground. Through the dark you struggle with his expression, equally hurt by his scowl as he is with your own. “Jon already told me that you’re interested in him. Which is fucking fine, and I get that you’re hurting in this situation. But don’t you dare go around being an absolute asshole to both of us, just because you can’t get what you want. We have a job to do, and I’m your friend.”

He’s shaking his head, eyes wide and mouth pouted open. This time he can’t stop the laugh, harsh and mocking in the night’s biting air. “You’re kidding? You think I don’t like you guys hanging out because I’m in love with Ryan?” 

You stop, accepting his simple explanation with a tight nod. You resist the urge to shuffle guiltily, uncomfortable with confronting his feelings with such volatile accusations.

Jeremy’s jaw sets, fists balling by his side while he turns bitter. “Oh, you’ve caught me. I’m interested in him, alright? Really really interested.”

A rattling sigh bounces from your lungs, falling flat in the snow. You knew this would be inevitable, and sucking in a breath and as much confidence as possible, you start the conversation you’d rather not have. “Look, Jeremy, Ryan and I-”

“I’m interested in him because he’s a  _ person  _ of interest, you fucking moron.”

The words stop, clinging to your tongue and scampering back down your throat before you can comprehend his vicious growl. “A person of interest? You mean-”

“I mean that you’ve been trying to date a god damn murder suspect.”

“Oh.” The shock expelled from your lips forms with a gentle pop, and with it his expression softens. Regretfully he gathers his apologies, rubbing them comfortingly into your arm. Tears well, but you don’t let them fall, feeling them thicken in your throat. “Wow J. I- I just… I can’t believe this.”

“I know, Y/N, it was hard for me to accept too, but-”

You jerk away, skin stinging from his touch. Recoiling, a few stumbles steps see the fountain greet the back of your knees, accusations like daggers. “I can’t believe you’d think your closest friend could be a part of this.  _ That he could hurt children _ . After losing his own, for god sakes. What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s like - It’s like you don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, sure, lost his own, wha- you’re not listening, are you? Because you just obviously know him better, huh? All that time you’ve spent together, all those nights stumbling home arm in arm - yeah, I fucking know about that because we’ve got men watching his every fucking move so he doesn’t kill another kid - it must mean that you know him better than me? Bearing in mind, Y/N, you were the one that dated a god damn serial killer and refused to accept it, not me. And it got people killed.”

Your spine straightens, bite so lethal he shrinks away. The sharp breath sears through your lungs, mind reeling from the night that haunts your dreams and forced you to run from all that you love as he jams it into your hands. It’s your turn to ball your fists, clutching your coat close with the enraged whip of wind. It takes all you have not to launch across the space and punch him, to refrain from falling to your knees and screaming like there’s no tomorrow. 

When you speak your voice is low, far more threatening than intended, but appreciated all the same. “Yeah, I guess I do know him better.” 

Jeremy wants to snap back, but you don’t let him.

“I must do, because I know what type of person he is, Jeremy. And he’s a damn good one. And I also know what obsessing over a case does to people like us. I was too blind to see Charlie for who he was, because I was too busy focusing on someone else. Someone innocent, remember? I chased him to the point where he couldn’t handle the hounds and killed himself. Do you remember that, huh? Remember when we charged into his apartment and found him hanging, then got the call that my sister was dead all in the same hour?”

Jeremy doesn’t speak, as frozen as the world around him. If he could swallow his comment, he would. He’d forgotten the raw hurt, the agony in your eyes whenever you’d talk about your sister - and hadn’t realised it was still as fresh as ever. He can’t look at you anymore, glaring at his fingers as they slowly blotch purple. And you don’t look at him, either. Can’t stand his guilt, can’t stand seeing him the way he was all those years ago, watching your sister’s blood coat his hands after he’d done all he could to save her.

“I won’t let you make the same mistakes I did, Jeremy. I won’t let you drive yourself, or Ryan, into madness, just because you don’t know how to stop and see a bigger picture.” You turn to leave, stopping only to spit your final remark into the street you’re desperate to escape. “Oh, and once you’re done condemning Ryan you might want to talk to him, seeing as he’s just found the evidence we need to link the killer as a copycat to the Widow of the Woods story.”


	27. Chapter 27

His flannel shirt greets your ascent along the path back home. Red against winter. Honey gold in the humming darkness. You want to call out to him, to tell him that everything is alright and apologise for bolting away; but you don’t trust your voice. Certain, in fact, that the sobs clinging to your ribs will tear their way from your lips as soon as you try to speak. 

So instead you grant rejection and betrayal the time they need. Stinging your nose and quivering against your lips as you raise a hand to Ryan’s distant figure lingering at the top of the snowbank, waving him on. Motioning for him to continue and hoping more than anything that he will grant you the isolation your vulnerability needs. 

He takes a moment. His expression distant. Watching you at the base of the path, your hand now pressed to one of the tattered trunks lining the ascent like a railing. His fingers twitch, curling into a loose fist before he takes a step back from you. Then another. Dragging his attention away and reluctantly disappearing like you urge him to. 

In the dark you’re grateful, night having fallen fast over Motbury as though the sky were trying to hide the hurt you dress in. Unwilling, stubbornly so, to let Ryan see you break. Desperate, more so than anything, to avoid explanations. Knowing that as soon as you start unweaving the tale you tried to escape by moving to this town in the first place you’ll be unable to stop from unpicking yourself at the seams. 

The bitter cold is thick against your skin, gnawing on your bones through the coat you pull closer. It sees your limbs stiffen and discomfort exude in steam from your lips. Still, despite the freezing temperatures desperate to claim your body, the heat of Jeremy’s words cling to your back as you keep pushing forward. White hot and screaming from the static shock you’d left him in, his feet rooted to the floor and expression one torn between anger and regret. 

You don’t blame him. Not because you don’t want to; but because you can’t. You’ve been on the path Jeremy is spiralling down, you and the detective both have. Trapped in tunnel vision and bent on seeing one thing as another that you will it to be. Desperate to find connections when none exist, and far too eager to put a familiar face on a monster. Following a clumsy pattern that doesn’t make sense, and getting frustrated when the design is nothing more than a mess. 

Your mess.

Last time it had gotten someone killed. Last time you hadn’t been able to save your sister or see your boyfriend for who he was around the target you’d painted on someone else's back - but not this time. This time you know better. 

A storm is coming, you can feel it. Not just from the emotions churning in the turmoil, but from a glance at the clouds. Their anger so obvious you shy away from the sky. 

Trying to put the past out of your mind, you submerge yourself in the calm scattered across Motbury. Taking in what you can of the stars as they guide you along the path you’ve walked so many times. Fresh air filling your lungs and washing away the panic that builds in your chest. Close enough to comfortable by the time the roof of your home stretches into view.

Ryan waits for you on the porch, doused in the light pouring from the windows. Caught in the same rich oranges and warm yellows painting the wooden beams and pooling across the snow. Everything about him screams nervously. Anxiousness set in his expression, knitted with the tug of his eyebrows and worn bags circling his eyes. Even the jitter of his hands, fingers drumming incessantly against his arm, tells the story of the panic and confusion. 

Guilt knots your stomach, but the feeling doesn’t last long. Ryan drops his discomfort at the sight of you stumbling over to him, quick to smile and draw you close. The pound of his heart works wonders, his heat thawing your skin.  

“Y/N,” Ryan murmurs, his voice draping across your crown, “are you alright? You scared me half to death when you ran off.”

You hum in response, not quite ready to break your own silence. Instead you’re content in his arms until the moment drags on and he pulls back to gauge your expression. Offering him a smile, you lace your fingers through the hand he places against your cheek, the action easing the knot of his brows. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, “I am now. C’mon, let’s get inside. It looks as though it’s going to storm.”

  
  


-

  
  


Lauren beams, brightening the room even more and eyeing your blush as Ryan skirts behind you in the kitchen. With a hand on your lower back, he leans for the tea towel on your left, laughing at the jokes pouring from Alfredo’s lips and soaking in Trevor’s half hearted complaints. You can feel your best friend’s attention, can practically see the knowing grin that adorns her face, but for a moment you can’t drag your eyes from the countertop. 

“Those carrots sure seem interesting, huh?” 

You scowl at her comment, forcing your gaze upward as Ryan drifts further into the space, smiling broadly before tossing the towel at Alfredo - who fails to dodge it. Lauren’s sparkling eyes meet yours, mischief obvious in the way her head tilts. You look to Trevor, already knowing the direction the conversation is heading, but he offers you an equally teasing expression from his position beside the fridge. 

“But not as interesting as the new boyfriend.”

“Lauren, stop-”

She ignores you, and manages to avoid the ‘here we go’ Trevor throws her way as he places a drink in front of you before relocating to Lauren’s side. 

“So,” she continues, whiskey cheering her on, “how did you two meet?”

“Oh my god, are you really going to do this?” The blush on your cheeks deepens, and you’ve never wanted to sink into a pot to hide more. 

Ryan, however, doesn’t shy away. He moves back behind you, removing the knife from your hands and leading you to the side to take over. You want to argue, but the smile he shares is so genuine and caring that you allow the redirection. Instead you move to stand on the other side of the island, determined not to clutter the kitchen that Ryan and his assistant chef, Alfredo, have taken over.

“You know how we met,” you lecture her, stripping your apron and tossing it to Alfredo’s outstretched hand. He quickly dons it, eager and at attention. “You don’t need to hear it again.”

Lauren’s eyes narrow at you. “All I got from you was screeching and spam texts and ‘I fucked him’ freak outs-”

“LAUREN-”

“Besides, I wanna hear the story from someone in touch with reality.” 

Ryan chuckles, warmth jumbling with the vegetables he gathers in his hands places on a roasting tray. “I might not be the best person to ask, then.” He glances up, cracking a smile. His own blush shimmers across his cheeks at the sight of your now beetroot complexion. Golden light fills the room, bouncing off his brightness and shining from his skin in the amber lights overhead. “I’m not good with reality.”

Lauren laughs, watching you direct Alfredo on how to crack and peel garlic cloves. “You’re better than someone I know.” Again, she ignores your playful scowl. “And I wanna hear it from you. What did you first think of Y/N? Did she curse you? Oh, or maybe put a spell on you so you’d put up with her shitty jokes?” 

Alfredo snatches the herbs away before you can hurl them at your giggling friend, the cold frustration in your palms shedding from your skin in small flecks of light. They join the ceiling as though they’re snowing in reverse, faint enough to be missed but obvious enough for Lauren’s grin to turn wicked. 

“Why are you like this?” you grumble, moving to perch on the arm of the sofa she and Trevor adorn. 

“You brought this upon yourself,” her boyfriend muses, pressing a teasing kiss to Lauren’s neck while his arm winds around her. “You were just as bad when we started dating.” 

You wait a beat before finally giving in. “I guess I did threaten you.”

“You did.”

“Fine, fine.” You wave your hands dramatically, sinking against Lauren’s side with a huff. 

She shakes you off, taking a sip of her drink. “So,  _ Mr Sexy Lumberjack,  _ as Y/N likes to call you-”

“Lol, I swear to fucking god-”

“Shut up, Y/N. Jesus Christ. Let your man tell me the story.” 

Ryan is quiet for a moment, contemplating the herbs and oil he swirls around the tray before slipping it into the oven. When he finally speaks, it’s gentle, his words joining the rag he circles across the countertop while he cleans. “I was hooked as soon as she walked into Geoff’s store.” 

Your skin heats, sucking your internal temperature to the surface. You hadn’t realised he’d noticed you as he’d entered, remembering the way you’d bumbled your way through the aisles and backtracked to shelves far too many times. 

“Shut up,” you tease, “you were not.”

“I’m serious,” Ryan insists, continuing to tidy up to the sound of Alfredo clattering the dishes. “You looked so peaceful when you came in. All rugged up and with this little smile on your face.” He lowers his expression just a little, bashful. “Every time I saw you pass through the aisles I was like, ‘woah’.” 

You look away from his intense gaze, the intimacy too much. Lauren’s smile has settled into one of softness, the wicked teasing having soaked into the cushions. Trevor looks equally content, his chin resting on her shoulder and lips occasionally brushing her skin. You can see the fraction of a smile pressed against Alfredo’s mouth, but between the suds of too much dish soap, it’s hard to catch. 

“I must have looked like an absolute idiot,” you laugh nervously, a shaky hand running through your hair. 

Ryan shakes his head, leaning across the island with a smile that tells you he’s forgotten there are other people in the room. “You looked beautiful.” His eyes dart to Lauren as she lets out a happy, almost cringing breath, and he quickly collects himself. Busying around the kitchen, you can clearly see the red dusting his skin. “Y/N came over and helped me pick out dinner, and we picked on the resident detectives for breaking everything all the time. I made a stupid joke…” Ryan peeks at you over his shoulder, his features so gentle and vulnerable your heart threatens to stop. “And you laughed.”

You smile softly, fiddling with your sleeves. “All your jokes are stupid.”

He frowns, unapologetic. “Harsh.”

“But true.”

“Either way, you laughed,” he points out, “and asked for a job, so it can’t have be that bad.”

“Oh god.” Your head falls into your hand, sniggering at yourself while Lauren giggles. “I can’t believe I did that.”

You get an elbow to the side, your best friend’s expression surprised. “Since when are you that confident, huh?”

“Since he was hot!” you implore.

Trevor nods vigorously, making Lauren squirm beneath his chin. “Hotness beats a lack of confidence. Hell, I’d ask Ryan for a job.”

Ryan laughs. “If a position ever opens up, you’ll be the first to know.”

“It better not open up. Y/N is working for you forever now, no way around it.” Lauren puts on a stern mask, but you can see amusement crack at its edges. “Because if you ever hurt her, I’ll hurt you.”

“Please,” you groan, tossing her an exasperated glance. “No fighting in the house. Take it outside and maybe we’ll be lucky and the incoming storm will kill you both.”

Ryan pulls a face, his cheeks rosy and eyebrows knit. He can’t keep the grin from his features. “I’m wounded, Y/N.”

“Good,” you respond, hopping back to your feet and moving over, jabbing him playfully in the chest. “That’s what you get. Now scooch, I need to get the cutlery and plates out otherwise we’ll be eating like animals.” 

  
  


-

  
  


The storm you’d felt creeping along your back as you’d walked home continues to rage from it’s early moments midway through dinner, and the night quickly fills with laughterm warmth and a surprisingly comfortable silence whenever conversation lulls. Nothing disturbs the peace. Comfort heavy across bodies like thick blankets by the fire, of which chuckles with gentle amber flames in the hearth. 

Snow swirls behind the curtains you’ve pulled closed, biting at the glass; but inside it’s as though the idea of the cold has never existed. It has no place amongst the bodies sprawled across the living room and burrowed into comfortable nooks, unable to penetrate the soft stupor a night of drinking and new friends has brought. No stinging memories of your fight with Jeremy, and no aching loss from the digging up of your past. Not even the paranoia of an unwanted visitor, be it the wind or the tentative knocking of whatever likes to lurk on the porch when the weather turns and darkness falls, is able to bother you. 

Comfortable, and all together peaceful when the sounds never come. 

Pressed into the couch, you and Ryan lounge together in the dying light of the fire. His chest is firm against your back as you settle between his legs, one of his feet resting on the floor while the other rubs lazy circles against your shin. Clumsy and inconsistent, much like the strength of his voice. 

Ryan’s grip on your waist loosens as the weight of exhaustion claims him, arms heavy and secure as they hold you close. His voice drifts, coarse as it catches in your hair, his lips brushing a final kiss against the crook of your neck before he gives in and lets sleep take over. Head falling back, you hear his consciousness slip into the pillows as a gentle sigh leaves his lips. 

You smile. Dopey and overjoyed as you give one of his legs on either side of you an affectionate squeeze. “I’m surprised he lasted so long,” you hush to Alfredo with a chuckle, the man struggling to stand from the position he had sprawled out in across the carpet. “He’s never been good at staying up late.”

“Nah.” Alfredo rolls, stumbling with the sudden action while his face contorts into a strained expression. Eventually he manages to find his footing, holding out his arms and bending slightly to keep from toppling. “Dealing with your crap all day?” he teases, “I’m not surprised, man. You’re exhausting.”

“Rude.”

He sways, stifling a yawn. “But true. I’ll see you in the morning, I ain’t bout to pass out on the floor when I’ve got a bed upstairs. Night, Y/N. Night, Trev.”   

Your good nights follow him up the stairs while your gaze drifts to the only member of your family still awake, Trevor absorbed in the peace his girlfriend wears in her sleep. His fingers work through her hair, lost in long locks of blonde and the comfort the motion brings. Stroking free whatever stresses of the day remain in his fingertips while sunshine presses into his palm. He’s not paying attention to the conversation dwindling into the cracking of the hearth, oblivious to the soft smile and gentle expression he shares with the slumbering woman in his lap. 

You leave him in the moment, his skin warm in the light of the fire and the soft glow of the one he cradles close. His eyes churn, molten and rich as he watches her sleeping expression, intent on committing it to memory. Drinking it in as though it’s both the first and last time he’s ever seen something so beautiful. As though there aren’t enough sunsets in the world to compare her to. 

“You know,” Trevor says finally, his murmur swept away with the continued motion of his hands, “I’m going to marry her one day.” The statement is certain, so confident that you wonder for a moment if he’s ever seen anything else in his future. If, ever since he met her all those years ago, he’s kept the ring he bought on the first night in his coat pocket everywhere he goes. Your heart squeezes, already knowing the answer. “Then,” he breathes, smile so heavy with adoration that his lips struggle to hold it up, “she can annoy me forever.”

“You are,” you reply simply, “and there’s no way she’d let you get away with not.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter than I expected, but with a good smattering of fun and plot progression! Let me know what you think, your feedback fuels my soul <3

The morning is clumsy. Nonsensical in the early hours. A jumble of limbs and a knot of blankets trapped between far too many legs. Confusion fogging your mind as you draw in a heavy breathe, bringing with it a chill and the lingering scent of trees. Out of place, but not entirely unpleasant to a sleep ladened consciousness.

When your eyes peel open, the darkness of the room doesn’t quite fit with what you expect. Having anticipated light streaming through the windows of the lodge’s living room, your friends bundled together on the couch while the fire crumbles into ash with a gasp; the feeling of your own bed beneath you is disorientating. Acting like a puzzle piece you’re hammering too hard into a slot that it so obviously doesn’t fit, the cardboard corners starting to curl and warp with every frustrated fist you bring down on it. Convinced that somehow it ought to make sense. That the more you hit it the more likely it is to become a functional, rational part of reality.

It’s cold. Uncomfortably so. Stinging your front and nagging at your fingertips. Tracing the curve of your calves and scampering behind your knees. The covers do very little to retain the warmth you sorely try to hold on to, certain it had surrounded you not long ago. Confused, more than anything. Concern drunk and stumbling in the back of your mind.

It takes a moment to register the storm outside. Snow wailing at the windows as it slowly starts to die down, bitter temperatures dwindling in their efforts to claw at the glass. If you focus, you can almost see a hint of colour returning to the world. Tainting the darkness with muddy peaches and soft vermillion dipped in the remnants of the night.

The outside world shares your shudder, shoulders sinking further into the blankets and knees clattering against a pair you hadn’t expected. Equally icy, tucked loosely into your pocket of warmth. Groggy and dazed, you blink dumbly from a sleep you’re certain you shouldn’t have roused from. Forcing your thoughts into some semblance of consciousness.

Across from you, however, is a sight that settles your confusion. Something that finally makes sense to your sluggish mind. Ryan slumbers peacefully, his face relaxed and gentle while honey golden hair splays over the pillows. Caught in the warm silvers of the moonlight with only the word ethereal coming remotely close to describing his softness.

It takes a little longer than you’d like to admit, staring at him as though it were the last time, but you eventually realise that he must have stirred at some point and carried you to bed.

Reaching out, your fingers run through the loose strands hooding his forehead, pushing them away. Again and again, your fingertips brushing him further into a heavy sleep and warming his frigid skin.

The marks lining your skin almost glow in the moonlight, flickering with every motion. The remains of ink mask the scabbed skin that had resulted from when you’d pushed the pen nib down too hard in the early hours of that terrifying morning, marks residing quite happily beneath the runes carved into your hands. Faded but most certainly there. Glaringly so. Littering your body like twirls of wood shavings, charred and fragile. Curling like vices around your wrists, and snaking up your forearms.

The pale, ghostly scars burn guiltily when you take them in through the darkness. Protective charms humming with the palm you place on Ryan, willing for them to transfer to him, too. Hoping that whatever is left of the magic, of your energy, will embrace him the same way you do.

An arm you hadn’t noticed tightens around you, dragging you closer until your face presses into his cool chest. You want to complain, to shove him away and grumble about the cold biting your cheek, but you find yourself settling. Holding your hands to your chest, you nuzzle into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before your eyes slide shut.

Ryan’s sleepy hums of comfort are the last thing you hear before you fall asleep.

 

-

 

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Michael insists over breakfast, your phone pressed to your ear and his voice barely audible over the loud ordeal every morning has become. Plates clatter, the kitchen buzzing with caffeine fuelled animation.

“You’re gonna wanna get down here,” he presses further, voice rising with excitement, “we got the lab reports back for the markings. This is your baby, too.”

“Funny,” you scoff, dodging the loaf of bread Alfredo hurls to Trevor, Lauren getting caught in the fray. “Last I checked, I wasn’t a Mother or a detective.”

From the corner of your eye you notice Ryan’s eyebrow quirk. He does his best to seem like he isn’t listening, taking his time while buttering the same piece of toast he’s been working on for a few minutes. His expression flickers, something problematic folding his features for a moment before he glowers at his toast.

“You still upset about that?” You can practically hear the scrunched expression Michael pulls on the other end of the phone, his tone dismissive. “Don’t worry about that fuck or any of the bull shit he says. Detective Dooley isn’t in today, so you don’t have to worry about him. Besides, right now you’re a better cop than he is.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Michael.” You let off a nervous laugh, watching Ryan shake himself and decide that he should probably pretend to be focused on the second slice of toast. He spreads the button, oblivious to how clear it is that he’s let his breakfast go cold. Lauren eyes him, looking offended.

Michael makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat. “Well, I would. You’ve done more for this case than that obsessive asshole has in the past few weeks.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He lets out a sigh, looking for the words you might not want, but need to hear. “Look, Y/N… He’s a good guy, you already know that. He was doing his job and just got a little, err, god what’s the word that I’m looking for here?”

“Side tracked?” you offer.

“I was gonna say that he just got a little too far up his own ass,” Michael teases, his tone surprisingly soft. You sink into the comfort it brings, relief buzzing through the phone line. “But sidetracked is a good one, too. He’ll come around, you just gotta give him time. He’s been on the same line of thinking for so long, it’ll take a while for him to readjust. While he’s managing, we just have to pick up the slack until he catches up.”

You hum in response, taking a moment to sip on your tea. “Do you really need me there?”

“Need and want are two different things.”

“Oh, so _you_ want me there?”

“Ew. Fuck no,” Michael rejects with more cheek than what’s good for him, “but we do actually need you here. Considering we’re running with a theory you helped work out, it’ll be good for everyone if the mastermind to be in on all the information.”

You smile, watching the domestic life unfolding in your kitchen, willing the images of icy fingers and cold, tiny bodies from your mind. You cling to the warmth in front of you, hoping to stay in the moment. Dragging it out for as long as you can, as though it’ll keep the world and it’s incessant twitching still. That the burning itch at the base of your skull will cease.

“Alright,” you finally concede with another long sip of tea, accepting the plate of cold toast that Ryan sheepishly hands to you, “I’ll head over in 30 or so. Don’t start without me, yeah?”

Michael chuckles, yelling something to another officer while you drown your waiting breath in your tea. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N. We’re a team.”

You grin, picking up a slice and taking a large bite. “Let’s get this bread.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You grimace, the feeling of unmelted butter greasy against toast crumbs across your tongue. “You got pastries at work?”

“Of fucking course we do, we’re not animals. And don’t change the subject. You’re a fucking animal. No memeing in the precinct or I’ll arrest you.”

 

-

 

_After ample testing against other animal patterns found in the area, in which the sampled material was applied to a multitude of claw/bite/other markings of both native and outside animals, all sampled markings are deemed to be unbiological in nature._

_The plausibility of the samples being created by a creature as opposed to a hand held tool is noted to be unlikely and impossible._

_No bear nor other known creature can be attributed to the patterns found on the Motbury properties._

You stare down at the report as relief washes over you. After having read the brief at least four or so times, you still can’t quite manage to take it all in. With a racing mind and a set of shoulders so determined to drop all of the tension you’d been carrying over the past few days, it takes the clap of Michael’s hand on your back to rouse you from the chaos inside your own head.

_In regards to patterns and other factors, the most likely result is that these markings were created by a heavy tool with a sharp edge as opposed to an animal. A creature would be unable to achieve the paw splay needed to achieve the patterns observed. Yet to be determined, possible objects include, but are not limited to; axes, screwdrivers, shovel heads, etc. Further testing is required. The results of these further tests will be conducted and relayed to the Motbury Police Department._

 

“I can’t believe it,” you murmur, following the paragraph with your finger. “We did it... Like, we actually, properly did it. Oh my god, Michael.” You turn to him, his beam as bright as your own. “Oh my god!”

“Take that, non believers!” he practically bellows, picking you up and crushing your arms, swinging you around wildly with a chorus of laughter. “We fucking told you!”

“We were right,” you gasp, not at all phased by the tightness aching in your sides Michael continues to spin you. “We were fucking right! It’s a copycat, it’s all-” you wince as he attempts to pull Jackie into an equally eager embrace while refusing to put you down, “it’s all linked! The markings lining up with the fucking…the god damn killings and the storms - oh my god! They’re all the same person! _Michael - stop squeezing me!”_

Jackie smiles, here eyes glinting as she side steps Michael’s second attempt at a sweeping hug. Not to be deterred, he shifts his hold on you, pinning you securely to his shoulder while glaring a warning at the lab technician.

“Congratulations are in order,” Jackie offers, placing an office chair between herself and the detective, “this is a major break through. You’ve closed off some serious ‘what if’s’. Now you can compile all of the evidence together and work from it. Get rid of some loose ends!”

Michael eyes the barrier suspiciously, still refusing to let you go. Squirming in his grasp, you wriggle until you can see the report still clutched in your grasp, bent unceremoniously over his shoulder to read the brief yet again.

“It’s a person,” you breathe, winded slightly as Michael lunges for Jackie, “thank god. It’s just a person.”

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Michael grunts over Jackie’s squeak, his arm winding around her and hauling her into his hug, the two of you clattering together. “Gotcha, you fuck. But yeah,” he sways with you both, uncertain as to what he should do now that he’s achieved his short term goal. “It just means we’ve got a shit load of work to do.”

You gasp, wincing as his shoulder dives into your stomach. “Yeah, well, it’s only a matter of time now. We can start looking at people and matching them to our Window copycat theory.” The floor greets you when you’re released, but your grin never fades. “You ready to deep dive into some townspeople files?”

Michael beams wickedly. “You’ll have to start without me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, Detective asshat needs me for a trip out. You’re on your own. But hey, none of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for you. So thanks.”

 

-

 

The clutter of the back room has becomes a familiar strain, accompanying your work day as though it prides itself on being such a loyal employee. Paperwork packed into shelves and plastic bags loaded with evidence press in from all sides as you curl over the files on the desk you’ve claimed for the day, eyes scanning the fading ink in the hopes of finding something you don’t already know.

So far you’ve had little luck. The idea of giving up however, is appalling. No amount of begging from your stiff knees and aching limbs can convince you to leave the seat you’re glued to. A box of pastries has become one of your only friends, coffee cups littering the high surfaces that you’d rather not acknowledge as unstable.Every record up to this point has been irrelevant; ruled out with the new connections exposed from this morning.

The nerves behind your eyes throb with every _thump thump_ of your heart.

You’d expected to find yourself running in circles, and if you’re being completely honest with yourself you’d realise that you’re doing just that. A tired hands rubs across your face, ink and mental exhaustion smudging across your cheeks and pinching at temples. A soft groan escapes you before you can stop it, forehead coming to rest on your folded arms. It’s been hours. Hours since you’d celebrated with Michael. Hours since you’d burst into the filing room like a whirlwind, and hours since you’d sat down with every record the police had on the townsfolk.

The lights in the room are still far too bright. Obnoxious, straining and artificial. Your eyebrows furrow.

What exactly you’ve been searching for is still a mystery, even to you.

 _Which is infuriating_ , you admit with a click of your tongue and unflattering grimace, _and taking far too long._

You’d originally started with the goal of categorising the townsfolk by sifting through suspect lists, alibis, and recent activity; collecting records on the individuals specified as being of interest to the investigation, but it quickly proved near impossible for you alone. Everything seems to contradict, no matter how deep you dig. Your mind paces through the same patterns until you’re left dizzy with your head on the desk, frustrated beyond words and desperate for something to clean the sour taste of coffee from your tongue.

Stealing your remaining reserves of motivation, you yank yourself back into sitting, fingers slipping into your pocket and producing the two small stones you’ve taken to carrying with you. Their weight is reassuring in your palm, warm against the skin and humming so softly that your stresses start to lull almost instantly. Turning them over again and again, the sound of the stones jostling together eases you even further while your attention drifts back to the next record in front of you - one that had recently been ruled out.

The number of suspects for the case had been few and far between, but that hadn’t deterred you from an investigation before. Instead, no matter how much you loathe it, double checking the past leads was the best way to build a foundation for future investigations. Focusing on the page, you grimace at the corners dotted with your clumsy, absentminded scribbles - hoping the police department won’t mind the mindless shapes you’ve subconsciously scrawled.

 

SCRIPT

 

Interview with Gavin D. Free (Store Clerk).  
Interviewer: Officer B. Burns.  
Supervisor: Det. Insp. J. Dooley.  
Additional staff on script record: Dooley & Jones.

 

NOTE: Supposed witness to suspicious activity during storm.

 

11/12/16 - Suspect reassessment.  
RESULT: REMOVED FROM SUSPECT REGISTRY.

 

Burns: Alright, for the record can you please state your name, occupation, and the prepared statement for the dates specified, Mr. Free?

Free: Well, I don’t really have to now, init?

Burns: … Excuse me?

Free: My name. You’ve already said it. Why should I say it if you’ve already gone and told me the answer?

Burns: That’s not the point-

Free: Then what is? Cus if you were tryin’ to see if I was an imposter or summut, then you’ve just gone and given away the name.

Burns: Why would I think you were an imposter?!

Free: I dunno, I gues- oh, for the record I just shrugged there - I dunno Officer, aren’t you supposed to be covering all the bases or somethin’?

Burns: By checking if the local bag boy isn’t-

Free: What if I was wearin’ a skin suit?

Burns: What?

Free: Yeah, like those episodes of Doctor Who.

Burns: Episode… of Doctor-

Free: I could be an imposter wearing my own skin.

Burns: Why would you be wearing your own ski-

Free: Yeah, god what were those big bloated bastard things called? Big and green and bloody ugly… Eccleston was top as the doctor back then. Tennant was pretty alright though. C’mon, what were those fuckin’ things called-

Burns: I’m not sure how this is relevant, Mr. Free. Can we just get back on trac-

Free: Slitheen!

Burns: Excuse me?

Free: Those monsters, init? The Slitheen.

Burns: I’m not checking to see if you’re a Slytherin.

Free: Oi, I’m a Gryffindor! For the record-

Burns: Don't-

Free: I’m a Gryffindor with my boy.

Jones [muffled]: Yeah boy! Gryffindors for life!

Dooley [muffled]: Michael, can you just - shut the fuck up? There’s an interview going on.

Jones [muffled]: Oh shit, right. Sorry boss. Hey, you’re a Slytherin, right?

Dooley [muffled]: Yeeehhhhhhh-

Burns: Now is not the time! Look, Mr. Free, I don’t care what Harry Potter house you’re in, and I’m not checking to see if you’re a Slith-whatever.

Free: Good.

Burns: What?

Free: Good to know you ain’t an idiot or nothin’!

Burns: What the fuc-

Free: I couldn’t be a Slitheen, could I? I ain’t fat enough. You’d have to check Jack for that - OH! Oh and I don’t fart nearly enough. See, you gotta fart to get into the skin suit… now that I think about it, Geoff is awfully suspicious now. He’s always farting… But so’s Michael. [Distant] Micoo, hey Micoo!

Jones [muffled]: What the fuck do you want, asshole? Can’t you see there’s an interview going on?

Free: You fart a lot, right?

Jones [muffled]: Yeah you fucking know it.

Free: You ain’t an alien from outta space, are you?

Jones [muffled]: … What the fuck.

Free: You’d tell me if you were, right?

Jones: Yeah… yeah I’d - Jeremy shut the fuck up you’re gonna break something - yeah I’d tell you, boy.

Dooley [muffled]: For the record, Officer Burns has given up on life.

Free: Thanks, boy.

Jones [muffled]: You’re my boy, boy.

Burns: ALRIGHT. THAT’S IT. I’VE HAD IT. I’M DONE. We’ll do this again tomorrow.

 

 

The pen nib glides across the page as you read, ink and spiraled patterns following the transcript until you reach the abrupt end.


	29. Chapter 29

Your head hits the desk.

Frustration seeps from every pore, exuding from your skin and soaking into the papers you’d rather be buried under than continue to read. A pool of stress and anxiety surrounds you, the burning at the base of your skull starting to itch so insufferably that you want to cry. Want to kick and scream and scratch away your skin until it’s raw and relieved.

The stones you’ve been passing through your fingers continuously do little to ease your anxieties now. Their kindness to your battered soul drifting with the hours ticking by. Instead they smooth your fingertips, the repetitive motion seeing the skin they grace over rubbed shiny and sore. The sigils carved in flecks of gold catching against your nails every so soften, sending soft shocks of complaints through your knuckles.

It bothers you. Not the pain, necessarily - that’s a welcome distraction from the beginnings of a headache - but it bothers you that they aren’t working. That a method you’ve fallen back on, always rely on, has lost it’s impact. It seems like no amount of bathing in the moonlight, or willing positive energies to cooperate, will bring you peace.

Irate, you fling the stones across the tabletop in a huff, hearing them clatter together with a satisfying clink. Not a moment later and a large pile of records begins to slip. You just watch them slide from their precarious stack, scattering across the table and slipping between the desk and wall.

 

_Great. Just fucking great._

 

Everything you’ve tried does little good, and the buzzing in your body mounts until it’s unbearable. As though even the charms littering your body, gripping your skin like a vice, are struggling to hold back your discomfort. Scratching at your arms, your nails come away black. Caked in ink and traces of blood. Only shoving your sleeves back down can spare you from the confusion dancing in patterns along your forearms, the warmth itchy.

Your phone is out of your pocket moments later, the dial tone humming against your cheek and the mumble of ‘god, I fucking hate’ falling from your lips. Forehead returning to the desk, you breathe through the rings until they cease.

“Yo, the fuck do you want?” Michael greets when he finally picks up, polite as ever. He’s too loud. Far, far too loud in the silence you shrug onto your shoulders. “I’m kinda in the middle of something-”

“Michael...”

“Can’t this fucking wait? I’m literally going to be back there in, like a fucking hour or something.”

“I’m dying,” you complain bitterly, voice rebounding warmly across your cheeks after bouncing off the desk. “I thought having a connection would make this all easier, but if anything it’s just killing me slower. All I’ve learnt is that I’m incompetent and so are you guys.”

Michael snorts. “No shit. This crap’ll never be fucking easy. You knew this when you signed the fuck up, I thought you were a cop?”

“I’m not a real cop anymore, dumbass. You’re not even paying me to do this shit.”

He’s clearly offended. “I’m paying you with my company.”

“You’re not even here!”

“It’s the thought that counts.”

“I want a refund,” you groan, lifting your head only to let it drop again. “This isn’t worth it. I have a real job, Michael. One with less death and more cute guys.”

“A cute guy,” he corrects, the smirk clear in his voice, “you just like working with wood.”

A frown presses against your lips as you trap your phone between your shoulder and cheek, searching blindly for a pen and fiddling with it. Ink decorates your already packed skin as your expression scrunches, boredom dictating your movements as you grumble.

“Don’t you even go there.”

“Oh, I’m going there.”

“If I hear a single sex or wood joke from you I’m hanging up.”

“Is that all it’ll take?” Michael muses, “and here I was thinking it’d be hard to get rid of you because you actually had something fucking important to talk about.”

You wait a beat. “Well… it _is_ important.”

Michael hums in disbelief, clearly humouring you. “Yeah? Go on then, what’s so important?”

“...I’m dying, Michael.”

You can almost feel his eyes roll. “Right. Goodbye, Y/N-”

“Why does my suffering mean nothing to you- oh.” You pull the phone away, frowning at the end call screen. “Fucker hung up on me!”  

  


-

  


The coffee machine is mocking you. You can hear it, the giggles of pity humming in it’s whirling while you wait with your mug trapped between stiff fingers. The paperwork you’d abandoned for the time being begs for your return, pressing against your back and curling across your shoulders. Tugging your weight down until you’re certain you’re shrinking beneath the glare of the artificial lights above you. Even from the doorway you can feel the incessant pull of responsibility as it morphs into obsession, demanding fingers sharp like papercuts curling around your ankles so tightly that you struggle to remain still.

The pad of your thumb runs absentmindedly across the top of your hand, the skin beneath the nonsensical marks you’ve left in ink stinging. Soft pinks peek around black scribbles and shapes, irritated from the constant pass of the pen nib, the lines so familiar that you’re certain that, once you wipe them away, they’ll continue to glow. Scarred silver with the concerns of an idle mind.

A groan of relief slips past your lips when you can finally top up your cup, momentarily forgetting your complaints regarding the police station’s tea selection when the caffeine greets your tongue. You relish the seconds that pass, absorbing the sounds of your own breathing and the soft vibrations of the warm staff room.

Idle eyes slip across the furniture, none of which is above the description of shabby and faded, and your attention relaxes when it meets the window. Through the glass sways the tops of trees, greens shivering together and brushing away left over snow. If you try hard enough, you can almost hear them calling to you. The gentle whispers of the leaves promising you the company you’re starting to crave. A change of scenery, at least, before evening has the chance to properly stretch out. And perhaps some relief from the burning strain continuing to coil around your neck and burrow into the base of your skull.

You’re moving before you can bring yourself to think, already trekking through the halls and back into the packed office. A new sense of determination claims you, finally giving in to the pull of fresh air while you shrug on your jacket and reach a hand out towards the clutter on your desk without paying much attention to what you’re gathering.

A mild warmth greets your fingertips, becoming enough of a surprise to leave you yelping when a gentle shock courses up into your knuckles. Your quick recoil sends your rune stones skittering across the table top and onto the floor, clattering unhappily until rolling to a stop beneath the desk. You wince, apologising despite yourself before placing your mug down with a grumble and falling to your knees.

Arm out and feeling around blindly, you shuffle your palm across the floor with a strained groan. Dust greets your fingertips, and an uncomfortably sticky substance that you’d rather believe is old coffee than anything else leaves an odd residue as you search. With the pressure of the desk clinging to your shoulder, you force your arm deeper until you come across the stinging cold of something smooth.

Yet again you jerk back, crushing your tailbone against the cold floor with a yelp. Unease spreads through you as you shuffle back into sitting, frowning for a moment before lowering your face in an effort to peer at what you’d just come across. What greets you is the cluster of old files you’d already seen fit to topple, all jammed between the wall and desk, papers having slipped from their stacks only to scatter. Atop the closest record - which seems far too faded and beaten to be from the same pile you’d tossed around before - rest your stones, their runes chattering with one another as their energies hum.

Standing back up, you glance about the room, finding nothing remotely helpful. Grumbling into the palm you rub groggily across your tired features, you start your descent into the madness of searching for the store room. Lino sticks to the undersides of your shoes. Shucking with every step towards the door and down a relatively untravelled hallway you make.

It’s not long before you come face to face with a door that promises to be more helpful than you’ve been today. The yellow sign claims it’s status, boasting it’s possibilities beneath the stutter of artificial lights. Though you’re sure that most of the officers in the precinct wouldn’t ever dream of venturing into anything labelled ‘maintenance’.

Lips pursed, you swallow your frown and try the handle. To your surprise, it swings open easily, and you can’t help but be relieved that at least something else hasn’t gone wrong.

Clutter greets you. The smell of chemicals harsh and biting, sour enough to leave you gagging as it settles bitterly in your throat. The dust comes second. Clogging your already burning nose and irritating your skin as it infests your eyelashes and tangles in your hair.

Everything about the room screams unpleasantly. You find yourself wringing your hands, fingers uncomfortably empty with the loss of the comfort your stone’s energies generally provide. You can almost hear them calling for you, their whispers insistent, _demanding,_ as they scuttle through your hair. Your scalp itches, the faint feeling of fingers dragging across your skin enough to leave you shuddering. Keeping your nails from finding purchase at the top of your neck and yanking away the trembling skin is difficult, and has you balling your hands into fists.

Chewing on your lower lip, you try and put your discomfort aside. Exhaustion and the frustration surrounding your lack of progress can only be held off for so long, and you can feel yourself succumbing to the anxieties your usual methods - no residing between the desk after you’d hurled them in annoyance - would normally be able to satiate.

The sooner you get it over and done with, the sooner you can leave this god damn room.

Stepping inside, stale air engulfs you. Stinging cold and still somehow suffocating. The cramped space glares, it’s walls packed clumsily with cleaning supplies, all of which reach towards you with eager fingers.

Shoulders hunched and arms pressed you your sides, you don’t bother with the light. Instead your attention remains focused on the broom in the back, it’s long handle almost glowing in the odd fluster of light cast from the hallway. Snatching at it, you scamper out of the room as fast as you can, door slamming to shut off the darkness so that it would leave your back alone. The gnawing of nothingness still rings in your shoulders, though. Teasing up and down your spin as you hurry back to the room you’d claimed.

You don’t waste any time in yanking open the door, back pressed against it once you shut off the outside hallway. A few deep breaths eases you, drawing in the smell of coffee and old ink. And, broom in hand, you lower yourself to the floor; angling it until the tip of the handle clatters against the file your stones nestle against. A little wriggling and a few frustrated cusses later, and the corner of the paper stack comes into view.

Triumphant, you don’t realise that it’s cold pages aren’t actually cold at all.

They’re warm.

Hot, even.

Burning as soon as you touch them, so much so that as you move to let go they cling to you. Instinct takes over, the same kind of primal fear that overwhelms logic in the face of an insect crawling across your sleeve - and you panic. Flinging your arm away and scuttling backwards, legs kicking and a sharp yelp falling from your lips.

You don’t give yourself time to register the cup you’ve knocked over, it’s contents already rushing across the floor and soaking into your clothes. The pain is already too much. From the point your skin makes contact with the file, everything twitches angrily. Violent heat courses through your veins, itching at your wrist and needling into the crook of your elbow. You convulse, torso curling and shoulders desperate to shrug off the pain as you draw in enough breath to build up to a scream.

No amount of struggling releases the file from your grasp. It’s stuck to your palm, determined to be brought into the light along with the stones that fall into your lap after you flail.

And as soon as it started the pain disappears.

The stones hum in your lap. The sounds of their energies chattering growing increasingly loud as you finally manage to drop the record, staring at your hand in horror. The meat of your palm twitches, nerves spasming in relief and exhaustion as the scream catches in your throat, falling as a gasp into your hand. But there are no blisters. There’s nothing left behind from the burning sensation that had shot through your limbs and burrowed into your shoulder. Aching in the muscle and clamping against the joint.

Instead all you find as you lower your gaze is a familiar name pressed against the file and drowning in spilled coffee.

  


**Case no. 02453672 (Homicide 2015)**

**Head in Charge: Det. Insp. M. Smith**

**Bethany Haywood** **  
** **Status: cold**

**Records transferred upon request following Father (R. J. Haywood) relocation.**

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoying the story? Join the Numb Discord: https://discordapp.com/invite/9xjWZvT


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